UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


J 


PRORSUS  .RETRORSUS. 


BY 


DENTON  J.  SNIDER. 


ST.  LOUIS: 

SIGMA  PUBLISHING  CO., 
210  PINE  ST. 

1892. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1892, 

BY  DENTON  J.  SNIDER, 
In  the  Office  of  Librarian  of  Congress,  Washington,  D.  C. 


'*. •';•/•'  .'•,    J> 


NIXON-JONES  PR 


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TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


PRELUDE  —  POLYDORE  and  AURORA 5 

CD 

CO 
CD 

Part  First — Ecce  Roma. 

CO 

Book  First  —  In  Urbem. 


1 .  Ultimus  Komanorum 25 

2.  Roma  Carissima 32 

3.  The  Roman  Holiday 44 

4.  Found 48 

5.  The  Open  Secret 50 

«>              6.  August  Roma  and  Roman  Augusta 55 

7.  On  the  Piiicio 60 

8.  In  a  Roman  Wineshop 64 

|? 

(ft               9.  The  Roman  Cupbearer 66 

10.  The  Goddess  of  the  Capitol TO 

11.  Nature  and  Art  at  Rome  76 

12.  On  the  Tiber 81 

13.  The  Old  Titan  at  Rome  86 

14.  Those  Tell-tales  the  Muses 89 

15.  A  Little  Roman  Olympus 92 

16.  Anticipation 98 

17.  ArtandLife 101 

18.  Experience 104 

19.  Palingenesis 106 

iii 


317137 


iv  TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 

Book  Second  —  Ex  Urbe. 

1.  Confession 108 

2.  Vision  of  Castaly 109 

3.  The  New  Prometheus 112 

4.  Metempsychosis 115 

5.  An  Old  Legend  Re-incarnated 120 

6.  Tiber  and  Arethusa 124 

7.  The  Two  Muses 125 

8.  The  Two  Streams  125 

9.  Looking  Backward 126 

10.  The  Sigh  of  Hellas  in  Rome 126 

11.  Art 128 

12.  The  Great  Fall 128 

13.  A  Translation , 129 

14.  An  Oration 130 

15.  Premonition 131 

16.  The  Two  Guides 131 

17.  The  Two  Cities 131 

18.  Retrorsus 132 

19.  Prorsus  132 

Part  Second  —  Epigrammatic  Voyage. 
Book  First  — Italy. 

INTERMEZZO  —  PASTORALE 185 

Book  Second  —  Hellas. 

Maid  of  Athens 238 

Hymn  to  Pallas 243 


Polydore  and  Aurora. 
Prceludium  Matutinum. 

Weary,    unwilling,    the    eyelids  droop,    though 

slumber  has  left  them  ; 
Polydore  rises  alone,  sits  on  his  couch  with  a 

sigh; 
Long  he  has  wandered  in  hope,  pursuing  a  vision 

of  splendor, 
Filled  is  his  heart  with  a  dream,  whether  he 

wake  or  he  sleep. 
Soon  he  sets  forth  in  the  dark  for  the  hills,  for 

the  tops  of  the  mountains, 
Toil,  which  wearies  the  world,  brings  him  his 

only  repose. 
Troubled  he  is  with  an  image,  sweet  image  that 

drives  him  to  wander, 

Polydore  is  not  too  old,  is  not  too  young  for 
the  quest. 


6  PBORSUS    RETEOESUS. 

Up  the  rough  pathway  he  climbs,  which  leads  him 

away  from  his  cabin, 
Down  he  hastes  to  the  dell,  through  the  wild 

gloom  of  the  glen, 
Forward  ho  steps  full-hearted,  his  lot  is  ever  to 

wander, 
Polydore's  locks  are  still  brown,  shot  through 

with  silvery  strands. 
Dawn  is  dreamily  touching  the  farthest  tops  of 

the  mountains, 
Which,  not  fully  awake,  drowsily  rise  from  the 

earth 
In  the  distance ;  like  giants  they  rise  and  shake 

off  their  slumber, 
With  a  dull  droop  of  the  head  vanishing  into 

mists 
For  a  moment,  but  at  a  wink  they  spring  back  to 

twilight: 
Polydore,  young  in  his  dreams,  walks  out  of 

darkness  to  dawn. 
Longing  in  minstrelsy  sweet,  and  lingering  over 

his  journey, 
He  will  hum  a  low  note  tuned  to  a  shell  in  nis 

hand; 
Images  swarm  on  his  path  to  the  heights    and 

mock  all  his  senses, 

List  I   his  voice   too   they  touch,  tipping   his 
words  with  their  wings : 


POLTDOEE    AND    AURORA.  7 

"  Lovely  Aurora !  I  see  thee  arise  from  thy  bed 

in  the  Orient, 

With  the  stroke  of  thy  hand  moving  the  cur 
tain  aside; 
White  and  slender  thy  fingers  are  laid  on  that 

curtain  nocturnal, 
Hanging  down  from  the  skies,  faintly  ingrained 

with  light ; 
Through  the  break  that  hath  cloven  the  night,  I 

gain  sweetest  glimpses 
Of  a  maiden  that  stirs,  clad  in  the  white  robe 

of  rest, 
On  a  bed  that  is  made  of  the  snow-flake  or  down 

of  the  eider, 
And  is  rocked  to  a  hymn  sung  by  the  winds  of 

the  hills. 
But  now  while  I  am  peering  with  curious  eye  to 

behold  thee, 
Out  with  a  bound  thou  art  sprung,  maiden  of 

mildness  and  grace, 
And  in  thy  soft-flowing  garment  thou  sweepest 

across  the  high  Heavens, 
Robed  in  the  drapery  fair  of  the  Immortals  of 

old. 
Goddess  thou  art,  I  adore  thee,  I  know  thy  shape 

and  thy  movement, 
Now  appearing  to  me,  mortal  yet  dear  to  thy 

glance. 

Pour  in  my  wandering  soul  a  nectarean  drop  of 
thy  beauty, 


8  Pit  OR  S  US    RETRORSUS. 

As  thou  revealest  thyself  yonder  amid  the  mad 

stars 
Throwing  their   torches  unnumbered    into   thy 

calm  mellow  lustre, 
Till  they,  lost  in  thy  train,  seem  to  have  shot 

from  the  sky. 
Up  the  horizon  thou  movest  a  queen,  in  silence 

majestic, 
No  one  heareth  thy  step  ere  thy  sweet  presence 

be  felt ; 
Where  thou  passest  is  light,  but  not  the  fierce 

glare  of  Apollo, 

Mild  is  thy  lustre  as  love  that  is  unknown  to 
itself." 

Polydore  stopped  for  a  breath,  how  strong  and 

swift  were  his  heart-beats, 
Forging   the  thought   of    his   soul   into     the 

musical  word ! 
Soon  he  felt  lonely,  he  could  not  endure  his  own 

company  voiceless, 
For  to  another  he  sang,  could  he  but  sing  to 

himself. 
Deeply  he  sighed  for  what  was  behind,  but  he 

ever  looked  forward ; 
Strange   how  future   and   past  mingled   their 

strains  in  his  song ! 

Was  it  Aurora  he  saw,  or  was  it  the  thought  of 
another 


POLYDORE    AND    AURORA.  9 

Who  had  slipped  into  her  shape,  as  he  addressed 
her  on  high  ? 

"  Oh   how  youthful   thy  glance   as   coyly  thou 

climbestthe  Heavens ! 
Blushes  start  in  thy  cheek,  roses  are  wound  in 

thy  hair, 
Innocence  moves  in  thy  light,  yet  tinged  with  a 

red  ray  of  passion ; 
Maiden  divinely  young,  thine  is  the  gift  of  the 

Gods. 
When  horrid  Night  has  long  blinded  the  Hours 

beneath  her  dark  mantle, 
On  thy  lover  thou  look'st,  then  all   at  once 

there  is  light ; 
Every  morning  for  him  thou  hast  the  fresh  face 

of  the  flowers, 
Dipped   in   Castalian  dew,  breathing   Elysian 

perfume  ; 
And   from   thine   eyes  there   flowi  through  the 

world  a  shy  subtle  radiance : 
"Tis  the  love  in  thy  look,  deepest  and  first  of 

the  heart. 
Thine  is  that  first  love,  breaking  its  way  out  the 

soul  to  the  senses, 
With  the  might  of  the  God,  who  in  the  heart 

builds  a  shrine 

All  to  himself,  and  thence  he  divinely  doth  pour 
out  his  splendors, 


10  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Newly  begetting  the  man,  newly  creating  the 

world. 
First  love  knoweth  the  mortal  but  once,  while 

thine  is  forever, 
Born  each  morning  anew  for  the  dear  spouse  at 

thy  side ; 
O,  the  hard  law  for  us  of  the  wretched  race  of 

Terrestrials, 
Draughts  repeated  though  sweet,  lose  of  their 

flavor  divine; 
Once,  only  once  can  be  felt  the  delicious  surprise 

of  the  senses, 

Once  the  rapture  of  soul,  when   we  know  not 
what  we  do." 

In  the  swoon  of  his  feeling  pale  Polydore  sank 

into  silence, 

Back  he  looked  on  his  path ;  has  he  left  some 
thing  behind? 
Softly  his  glances  were  flushed  with  the    rays 

of  a  fond  recognition, 
See,  on  the  gloom  of  the  night  flashes  the  hope 

of  the  Dawn. 
O  Polydorus,  art  thou,  mad  imortal,  now  wooing 

a  Goddess? 
Hush,  his    voice  has  come  back,  as  he  looks 

into  the  East: 

"  Say,  for  whom  is  this  love  of  the   maid,    the 
whole  world  overflowing, 


POLYDORE    AND    AURORA.  11 

Every  new  morn  in  a  bliss  kindled  down  under 

the  sea? 
For  Tithonus,  happy   Tithonus,   old   man  and  a 

mortal ; 
Him  caresses  the  maid  daily  abloom    in   her 

youth, 
Where  he  lies  on  his  couch  far  beyond  the  round 

rim  of  the  ocean, 
Till    Aurora    in    fright    upward     unwillingly 

springs, 
Roused  by  the  rumble  and  roar  far  away,  on  the 

breath  of  the  darkness 
Borne  to  her  bed  of  repose,  startling  ambrosial 

hours. 
Hark  I  'tis  the  whirl  of  the  wheels,  and  the  stamp 

of  the  steeds  of  Apollo, 
In  a  chariot  of  flames  bringing  the  bold-eyed 

day. 
*  Hasten,  Aurora,  announce  with  thy  torch  his 

coming  to  mortals, 
Circle  the  globe  with  thy  wings,   night  shall 

restore  thee  to  love. 
Here  I  await  thy  return  o'er  the  sea  in  soft  fleeces 

of  slumber ; 
Rouse  up  the   work  of  the  world,  heralding 

light  and  its  task; 

Round  the  whole  earth  thou  must  pass,  my  em 
brace  must  be  earned  by  thy  journey, 
Parted  we  are  for  a  day,  won  by  thy  duty  is 
love.* 


12  PBOBtiUS    RETRORSUR. 

Up  she  leaps  from  the  couch,  and  glances  afar  to 

the  westward, 

Into   the   darkness   she  peers,   that   lies  out 
stretched  on  the  globe 
Like  a  dragon  ;  then  lifting  the  train  of  her  robe 

of  pure  twilight, 
Softly  she  treads  on  the  hills,  steps  £rom  a  top 

to  a  top, 
Till  she  hath  filled  the  whole  arch  of  the  sky  to 

the  bending  horizon 
With  her  Olympian  folds  waving  soft  silence  of 

light; 

As  if  a  statue  might  suddenly  rise  from  a  mount 
ain  of  marble 
Into  the  welkin  above,  there  to  be  seen  as  a 

God. 
Forth  she  is  ready  to  fly,  but  turns  in  the  pang  of 

departure, 
Gives  a  last  look  at  her  lore,  yet  with  a  hope 

on  her  face ; 
Many  complaints   she  sighs  on  the  night  wind 

about  separation , 

She  embraces  those  limbs  furrowed  and  trem 
bling  with  age, 
And  she  strokes  with  her  delicate  hand  the  white 

locks  of  Tithonus, 
Kissing  to  smoothness  his  brow  broken  in  ridges 

by  time. 

Is  it  true  that  Love  can  be  kindled  by  snows  of 
the  winter? 


POLYDORE    AND    AURORA.  13 

Seeks  it  to  slake  its  fierce  thirst  at  the  cool 

fountain  of  age  ? 
Gentle  tears  fill  her  eyes  during  all  of  the  hours 

of  absence, 
Weep  a  soft  dew  on  the  earth  till  every  flower's 

deep  heart, 
Touched  with  a  sisterly  grief,  is  filled  with  a  drop 

of  pure  sorrow ; 
Heaven's   star-lit   dome   loses    itself    in    her 

glance, 
Constellations   swoon  out  of  their  place  at  the 

touch  of  her  finger, 
And   in  her   light-flowing   veil   sapphires  she 

culls  from  the  skies. 
Yet,   Aurora,  yet  never  wert  thou   by  the   day 

overtaken, 
Far  in  advance  of  each  sun  is  thy  fleet  flight 

from  embrace, 
Time  thou  hast  left  in  the  race,  thou  outsteppest 

the  steeds  of  Apollo, 
Who  from  his  car  overhead  smites  us  to  age 

with  his  beams. 
But,  O  lily-crowned  victress,  immortal  thou  art 

and  a  Goddess, 
Youth   sits   throned   in   thy  cheek,  scattering 

blossoms  eterne. 
In   the   evening  thou  bathest  thy  waist   in   the 

springs  of  the  Ocean, 

Then  every  morn  at  this  hour  thou  art  arisen 
new-born." 


14  PRORSUS    RETROBSUS. 

Polydore  ceased;    he   sat  down  on  a  stone,  the 

first  stone  of  a  temple, 
Smote  with  his  staff  in  the  soil,  out   of  the 

ground  peeped  a  face, 
That  had  been  hewn  in  the  ages  antique  by  the 

hand  of  a  sculptor, 
Formed  to  a  lore  in  his  heart  out  of  the  Parian 

block. 
Long  it  had  lain  in  the  earth,  its  body  immortal 

with  beauty, 
Slept  the  long  sleep  of  its  night  veiled  from 

the  look  of  the  world, 
Till  now  Polydore  wandering  happens  along  on 

his  journey, 
Strikes  but  a  blow  with  his  staff,  gone  is  the 

magical  spell, 
Out  of  the  grave  uprises  a   Goddess  to  glad 

resurrection, 
Still  with   the   smile   of    her   youth   brought 

down  from  Hellas  of  old. 
What,   thou  too  on  the  earth!    and  takest   thy 

shape  in  my  presence  ! 
Polydore  rose  in  his  joy,  stood  on  the  stone  of 

the  fane, 
Lofty  Aurora  appeared  to  his  vision  transfigured 

to  marble 
Out  of   the  twilight  afar   falling  in   refluent 

folds. 

But  when  again  he  looked  at  the  sky,  the  face  of 
the  morning 


POLTDORE    AND    AURORA.  15 

Told  of  a  change,  a  decay,  plaintively  tuning 
his  words: 

"  Goddess  I  thy  lover  Tithonus  is  not  only  old, 

but  a  mortal, 
Older  he  grows  each  day,  burnt  is  his  flesh  by 

the  suns 
Till  it  is  crisp  to  the  touch,  and  soon  must  drop 

down  into  ashes, 
When  by  endowment  divine  there  will  be  left 

him  his  voice. 
Once  he  too  was  a  youth  along  the  green  banks 

of  Scamander, 
Fairest  of  shepherds  he  grew,  piping  on  Hasan 

heights ; 
'Mid  the  daughters  of  swains  he  passed  a  sunny 

existence, 
With  them  leading  the  dance  over  the  emerald 

slopes, 
Haunting  meadows  and   streams   sweet   nymphs 

ever  wooed  him, 
All  their  love  was  in  vain  'gainst  the  high  rival 

who  came, 
For  it  was  thou.     As  thy  light-stepping  chorus 

sped  over  the  hill-tops 
Once  long  ago  in  a  laugh  to  the   Dardanian 

vale, 

Thou  beheldest  him  first,  and  thereafter  ahead  of 
the  morning, 


16  PSOSSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Softly  on  tiptoe  thou  cam' at  out  of  the  East 

with  a  blush, 
Thou  didst  slip  up   behind  and  peer  over   the 

high  top  of  Ida, 
Gaze  on  the  shepherd  asleep  down  in  the  valley 

below ; 
Rapt  in  a  dream  of  thy  love  mid  his   dew-laden 

herd  he  was  lying, 
There  thou  didst  join  thy  white  arms  round 

the  fresh  loins  of  the  youth, 
Daintily  lift  him  and  lap  him  in  slumberous  folds 

of  thy  twilight, 
Bear  him  away  round  the  world  over  Oceanus' 

streams. 
Thither  ye  fled,  ye  lovers  antique,  and  dwelt  in 

your  rapture, 
Which,  O  Goddess,  still  gleams  into  the  world 

from  thy  face, 
But  the  years  the  mortal  pursued  and  plowed  up 

his  forehead, 
Wisdom's  harvest  they  sowed,  but  with  the 

tares  of  Old  Age. 
Pale  grew  the  cheek  of  Tithonus,  and  the  light 

curl  on  his  temples, 
Bitterly  frosted  all  through,  like  a  lone  icicle 

hung. 

Weak  is  Old  Age,  but  he  creeps  on  the  frolic 
some  days  of  the  youthful, 
While  in  the  garden  they  sport  mid  the  red 
roses  of  life, 


POLYDOBE    AND    AURORA.  17 

Fair  Tithonus  grew  old,  yet  he  had  a  young  love 

in  his  bosom, 
Which  immortal  will  be  when  the  frail  body  is 

dropped ; 
And  he  still  has  a  voice  outpouring  the  notes  of 

new  music, 
Hymning  a  passionate  strain  to  his  Aurora  the 

fair ; 

Song  holds  the  essence  immortal  of  love,  where 
in  all  its  fervor 
Out  of  the  heart  is  expressed  into  the  heart  by 

the  word. 
'Tis  his  voice  that  she  loves,  to  his  voice  her  soul 

is  still  clinging, 
Though  the  rose  leaf  hath  dropped  out  of  his 

cheek  to  the  ground; 
Voice  immortal  to  youth  immortal  in  them  is 

wedded, 
Like  has  found   like  in  its  love,  Homer   has 

married  his  Muse. 
For  the  voice  of  Tithonus  still  sings  with  the 

warmth  of  a  lover, 
And   sweet    accents    of    song   full   from    his 

bodiless  lips, 
Like    the    low   tender   whispers   of    Zephyrus, 

wooer  of  evening, 
Breaths    that    stray   on    the    air,   melting   to 

musical  sighs. 

Age,  while  it  calms  with  its  wisdom,  has  filled  up 
the  deeps  of  the  passion, 
2 


18  PKOKSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Shallow  the  vessel  that  seethes  wild    at  one 

touch  of  the  flame. 
Still  a  young  shepherd  he  is,  and  sings  a   fresh 

song  to  the  maiden, 
Voice   untouched  by  decay  changes  old  years 

into  new. 
Poet  Tithonus,  old  man  and  a  mortal,"   cried 

Polydorus, 
"  Youth,  a  Goddess,  each  night  breathes  golden 

dreams  on  thine  eyes, 
And  each  morn  to  her  task  she  springs  from  thy 

couch  with  caresses, 
Weaving  the  kiss  of  her  lips  into  the  word  of 

thy  soul. 
Thou  dost  speak  at  the  touch  of  thy  passion,  that 

speech  sings  forever, 
Sings  in  the  soul  of  the  maid  which  she  rays 

out  of  her  looks, 
As  she   now  meets  me   and   passes  in    haste   to 

return  to  her  lover, 
There   to   drink   the   full  song   which  I  hear 

lisped  in  her  train. 
Old  man,  thine  is  the  gift  of  the  Gods,  their  best 

gift  to  mortals, 

Word  that  never  grows  old,  treasured  in  maid 
enly  heart, 

Voice  that  ever  is  fresh  in  the  dews  of  u  morning 
eternal, 


POLYDORE    AND    AURORA.  19 

Thine  is  the  gift  of  the  Gods  —  share  me  thy 

heavenly  gift, 

Share   me  the  love  of   Aurora,    the    beautiful, 
youthful  forever, 

%/ 

Thou  art  a  mortal,  art   dead  —  pity   me  here 

still  alive, 
Me  a  mortal  like  thee,  still  chasing  the  hope  and 

the  passion, 
Share  me  thy  gift  of  the  Gods, —  share  me  the 

youth  of  the  world 
Which  though  linked  to  thy  body  of  death,  is 

wooed  by  us  living, 
Share    me    the    beautiful    one" — Polydore 

looked,  she  was  gone; 
Garish  Day  had  driven  her  off  with  a  bold  stare 

of  sunlight, 

As  on  the  summits  above  Phoebus  was  mount 
ing  his  car, 
She  had  fled  out  of  sight,  the  lone  minstrel  was 

left  in  the  valley, 

With   a   dream  in  his  heart    nourishing   pas 
sionate  strains; 
Still  the  fair  vision  was  humming  all  day  in  his 

thoughts  as  he  wandered, 
Tuning  to  music  their  dance   as   they    would 

leap  into  words, 

Like  the  youths  of  the  chorus  who  print  a  melod 
ious  movement 


20  PBOBSUS    BETBOBSUS. 

Clear  on  Parnassian  air,  winding  about  on  the 

slopes. 
But  she  had  fled  from  him,  hastening  forth  to  the 

couch  of  Tithonus, 
Ghostly  old  man  of  the  East,  long  ago  bodily 

dead, 
But  who  is  wedded  to  youthful  Aurora,  the  fair, 

the  immortal : 

Polydore,  hope  for  the  maid,  she  will  to-mor 
row  return, 
Thou  must  catch  her   spirit's  still   shadow   the 

moment  it  passes, 
Fix  it  forever  in  lines  drawn  round  her  fugitive 

form ; 
Look  again  at  her  statue  that  once  stood  up  in 

this  temple, 
Mark  how  swift  is  her  flight,  though  in  eternal 

repose. 
Fleet  Aurora  will  yield  up  her  speed  to  the  hand 

of  a  mortal, 
But  an  Olympian  net  over  her  shape  he  must 

cast, 
As  the  form  of  fair  Aphrodite  was  caught  by  the 

Artist, 
Holding  her   helplessly   fast   in   his   invisible 

toils; 

For  not  even  a  Goddess  can  break  out  the  net  of 
her  bondage, 


POLYDOBE    AND    AURORA.  21 

'if  she  once  has  been  seized,  prisoned  in  beauti 
ful  lines. 

Haste,  Polydorus,  speed  thy  way  to  the  lands  of 
Aurora, 

Over  the  rim  of  the  sea  into  the  home  of  the 

Past, 

Go,  now  bring  her  thy  living  love,  as  once  did 
Tithonus, 

Go,  take  captive  her  form,  then  she  forever  is 
thine. 


PART    FIRST. 

Ecce  Roma. 


(23) 


!00h  Jfirst 

In  Urbem. 


I.   Ultimus  Romanorum. 

What  can  it  be  in  that  face  which  couples  so 

Great  and  so  Little  — 
Often  I  ask  of  myself  moving  amid  Koman 

crowds. 
Many  a  look  that  flits  through  the  streets  has  the 

shadowy  semblance 
Of    a  something  divine  which  was  alive  long 

ago. 
Many  a  form  is  an  echo  like  that  of  a  dim  distant 

trumpet 

Heralding  glories  past  sunk  in  the  flesh  of  to 
day. 

(25) 


26  PBOB8US    RETBOBSUS. 

List  the  lament  on  the  air  from  a  swift  spectral 

face  that  I  followed 
Through  the  noise  of  the  crowd,  out  of  the 

market  to  church, 
Over  the  Tiber  and  up  to  the  Pincio,  eluding  me 

always 
Till  the  Pantheon's  spell  both  of  us  held  face 

to  face : 
"  Seek  me  no  further,  stop!  on  this  spot  I  yield 

up  my  secret 
Which  for  centuries  long  I  have  been  bearing 

in  pain; 
Here  is   the   fane   where   anciently  mingled  the 

Gods  and  the  Heroes, 
Built  in  the  form  of  the  world  holding  within 

it  the  world. 

See !  it  surrounds  thy  gaze  like  the  high  everlast 
ing  horizon, 
Arches  itself  to  a  dome  bearing  thee  up  to  the 

skies. 
Everywhere  it  is  telling  of  greatness  —  of  Great 

Men  who  dwelt  here, 
And  are  dwelling  here  still  —  hark  to  the  voice 

on  these  walls. 
Deem  it  not  fancy  —  oft  now  in  Rome  thou  wilt 

see  an  old  Hero, 
Or  it  may  be  a  God,  clad  in  the  shapes  of  the 

low; 

He  has  returned  once  more  to  the  Earth  to  serve 
out  his  penance, 


ECCE    ROMA.  27 

For  the  sin  of  his  deed  which  he  had  wrought 

here  before ; 
Still  he  could  not  avoid  the  burden  and  pang  of 

the  action  ; 
Destiny  forced  him  to  do,  driving  him  forward 

to  pain. 
Ah,  the  price  of  the  Great  Deed  is  guilt,  and 

guilty  the  Hero 
Pays  the  price  of  his  act  in  the  fierce  torment 

of  flesh." 
Suddenly  over  his  face  rolled  a  wave  from  the 

ocean  of  sadness 
Which  he  bore  in  his  breast ;  all  of  his  frame 

was  a  storm 
Only  a  moment;  strong  like  a  Koman,  he  put 

down  his  heart-throbs, 

When  again  he  began  sternly  his  soul  to  con 
fess  : 
"  Out  with  the  word  —  to  be  great  in  this  world 

doth  mean  to  be  guilty, 

Suffering  follows  from  guilt,  as  the  red  light 
ning  of  law. 
Mark   him  —  the   Great   Man   never   is   happy, 

never  offenseless, 
His  endowment  is  Will  dripping  with  innocent 

blood, 
Will  is  always  the  smiter,  assailing  some  right  of 

existence, 

Justice  then  comes  with  her  doom,  weaponed 
with  penalty  dire. 


28  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Hercules,  paradised  now  in  thy  legends,  Olym 
pian  Hero, 
Stalwart  thine   arm   was  indeed,   burdens  to 

heap  on  thy  back  ; 
What  did  it  boot  thee  in  toil  to  have  cleared  the 

wild  earth  of  its  monsters? 
Each  great  action  of  thine  was  a  whole  world- 

ful  of  pain. 
O  Bellerophon !   thou  for  thy  country  and  race 

wert  the  slayer 
Of  the   death-breathing   fiend    that  from  the 

Orient  sprang; 
Speak  the  reward  of   thy   action?    Madness  — 

within  thy  torn  bosom 
Nemesis  turned  loose  the  fiends  which  in  the 

fight  thou  hadst  slain. 

And  the  mightiest  one  of  you  all,  O  Julius  Caesar, 
Who   didst    snatch   the  old  world  out  of  its 

funeral  pyre, 
Where  it  was  burning  to  ashes,  and  bowl  it  down 

into  the  present, 
Who  with  thy  conquest  didst  build  far  in  the 

North  the  great  dyke, 
Bulwark  of  might  and   of   light  set  against  the 

barbarous  deluge  — 
What  was  thy  meed  but  thy  death  followed  by 

taunts  of  all  Time? 

Once  I  saw  thee  standing  just  here,  the  soul  of 
this  temple, 


ECCK    ROMA.  29 

And  the  world   seemed  too  small  holding  the 

arch  of  thy  brow, 
Daily  the  Sun  would  peep  through  the  eye  of 

this  lofty  Pantheon 
Thee  once  more  to  behold,  greatest  of  all  he 

had  seen." 
Slowly  the  spirit  looked  up  to  the  radiant  dome 

of  the  temple, 
Whence  the  light  seemed  to  fall  down  from  the 

eye  of  the  God  ; 
Placing  himself  in  the  sheen,  he  was  lit  through 

and  through  with  the  sunfire, 
Out  of  the  flames  he  yet  spoke,  dropping  his 

head  with  a  sigh  : 
'*  Still  the  Hero  after  his  deed  must  lapse  into 

lowness, 
Thousands    of   years    he    endures   ere   he   is 

cleansed  of  his  wrong, 
Suffering  is  his  red  badge,  alas  !  the  great  action 

is  guilty, 
He  probation  must  pass  smitten  for  ages  with 

pangs, 
Till  his  spirit  is  purged  of  its  guilt  and  Nemesis 

sated , 
Then  a   Hero    again    he    may  appear   on   the 

earth." 

"  Who  art  thou,  specter,"  I  cried,  "  how  speed 
ing  through  time  to  this  moment ! 
How  escaping  that  law  which  even  Rome  could 
not  break !  " 


30  PBORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

But  he  pointed  his  set  ghostly  finger  to  pedestals 

empty 
Where  the  Great  Men  of  Rome  anciently  stood 

with  the  Gods  : 
"  Ah,  to  be  great !  it  is  to  be  guilty  —  it  is  to  be 

wretched, 
Though  the  Hero  be  borne  to  the  Olympus  of 

Fame." 
More  he  seemed  willing  to    speak  when  fell  a 

moment  of  silence, 
Lips  he  moved  in  the  sheen,  but  not  a  sound 

could  be  heard ; 
Like  a  glimmer  he  flashed  up  into  the  sky  of  the 

temple, 
Lost  in  the  pour  of  the  beams  falling  down  out 

of  the  sun, 
With  the  God  he  rose  on  the  sheen  to  the  top  of 

Pantheon , 
Still  I  peered  in  the  light,  but  he  had  vanished 

beyond. 
Insuppressible  sorrow  steals  o'er  me,  it  crushes 

me  downward, 
All  the  Fates  of  hoar  Time  break  in  at  once 

to  my  heart, 
Pain  strikes  every  sense  of  the  body,  poignant 

with  pity 
For  the  Heroes   of   old,  guilty  in  deeds  that 

were  great. 

This  is   the  price  of  thy    action,    O  Roman  — 
penalty  lasting 


ECCE    ROMA.  31 

Laid  by  the  world  upon  thee  doing  the  work 

of  the  world; 
Still  thou  didst  not  shrink  from  thy  task,  from 

the  guilt  of  thy  grandeur, 
Sad   as   sorrow   itself,  sadder  it  is  than   the 

grave. 
Tears  flow  down  the  hard  stones  at  the  tragedy 

born  of  existence, 
Ever  the  man  has  to  do  that  which  undoes  him 

at  last. 
Even  to  live  is  a  deed  which  has  in  the  end  to  be 

paid  for, 
Birth    is    but    an    old    debt   which    must  be 

canceled  by  death. 
Slowly  I  droop  on  a  column,  I  am  but  a  drop  of 

pure  pity, 

In  this  presence  is  man  only  the  full  of  a  tear; 
For  a  moment  I  swoon,  then  faintly  I  rise  from 

my  heart-ache, 
Out  the  Pantheon  I  grope  into  the  sunshine  of 

Rome. 
Mount,  O  Phoebus,  thy  car,  and  fling  thy  light 

from  the  Heavens, 
Still  to-day  there  is  joy  if  but  to  Nature  we 

turn; 
Still  to-day  there  is  life,  see  it  here  festooning 

these  ruins, 

Green  is  even  decay  ;  up,  let  us  pluck  the  new 
flower. 


32  PRORSUti    RETRORSUS. 

2.  Roma  Carissima. 

'«  Tell  me  why  do  you  daily  run  off  to  ancient 

museums, 
Or  to  some  temple,  of  which  merely  a  column 

now  stands? 
Yesterday  why  did  you  gaze  so  long  at  the  pillar 

of  Trajan? 
Just  as  two  men  might  converse  both  of  you 

stood  face  to  face. 
All  my  life  I  have  seen  it  without  ever  hearing  its 

language ; 
There  I  brushed  you  and  passed,  but  you  would 

never  take  note. 
What  do  you  see  in  all  these  marble  relics  and 

ruins? 
Is  a  Goddess  of  stone  sweeter  than  woman  with 

life? 
Let  me  go  with  you  to-day  and  look  with  your 

look  at  the  statues* 
As  they  rise  in  long  rows  held  upon  pedestals 

high ; 
I  would  see  what  you  see  and  know   what  you 

know  in  this  city, 
Surely  some  secret  there  is  which    you  have 

kept  from  my  heart." — 
So  spake  the  maiden  of  Rome  just  when  in  the 

morning  I  started 

To  the  task  of  the  day,  searching  for  treasures 
antique, 


EGCE    ROMA,  33 

Which  have  still  to  be  dug   from  the   ages  by 

every  new-comer  : 
'Twas  not  the  first  time  she  showed  jealousy 

of  the  old  Gods. 
What  could  I  answer  but"  Come,  you  shall  enter 

the  magical  circle 
That  you  may  see  what  I  see,  that  I  may  hear 

what  you  say  !  " 
Rapidly  then  we  went  down  the  street  and  over 

the  Tiber, 
Past  the  high  palaces'  pomp,  through  the  hoar 

ruins  of  Rome  ; 
All  the  city  rose  up  from  the  earth  and  became 

but  one  temple, 
That  was  the  temple  of  Time  which   he  had 

built  for  himself. 
Soon  we  came  to  a  forest  of  columns  that  led  to 

an  entrance, 
Where  we  entered  great  walls  filled  with  an  old 

sculptured  world. 
Zeus  we  saw,  the  ruler  of  Gods,  but  the  father 

of  mortals, 

Parent  ever  below,  sovereign  ever  above  ; 
Well  might  we  blench  at  the  thunder-bolt's  glare 

that  leaped  from  his  forehead, 
Still  underneath  we  felt  love  softening  lines  in 

his  lips. 

Juno  was  there,  and  proved  in  her  look  she  was 
queen  of  the  Heavens, 
3 


34  PROKSUS    EETEOESUS. 

For   no   mortal   man   ever  to  love  her  would 

dare; 
King  Apollo  was  striding  in  stone  to  the  slaughter 

of  darkness, 
Swift  as  the  gleam  of  the  Sun,  fixed  though 

he  stood  on  his  feet ; 

Venus  was  also  present  ia  many  a  posture  allur 
ing, 
As  the  Goddess  of  Love  she  had  a  room  to 

herself ; 
Vast  was  the  throng  of  the  deities  coming  from 

Earth  and  Olympus, 

Ocean,  River  and  Nymph,  down  to  the  goat- 
footed  Faun, 
Everlasting  assembly   of   Gods   transfigured  to 

marble, 
As  they  gathered  once,  called  by  the  voice  of 

the  bard, 

When  they  all  were  summoned  up  to  the  Olym 
pian  palace, 
There  to  take  sides  in  the  war  over  the  city  of 

Troy. 
Many  high  mortals  also  belonged  to  the  sacred 

assembly, 
Who  have  done  here  below  nobly  the  deeds  of 

the  Gods, 
Or  who  have  suffered  for  others  with  a  divinity's 

patience, 

Who  have  resisted  fierce  Fate  though  they  have 
sunk  in  the  fight. 


ECCE    ROMA.  35 

See !    great   Hercules    yonder   reclines  —  he   is 

legless  and  headless, 
Still  in  his  trunk  you  behold  human  becoming 

divine  ; 

Ariadne  forsaken  has  fallen  asleep  in  her  sorrow, 
But  her  dream  has  restored  sweetly  the  lover 

she  lost ; 
Pericles  grandly  is  here,  still  speaking  for  war  in 

his  helmet, 
Man  of  the  people  he  is,  for  he  is  man  of  the 

Gods ; 
And  beside  him  through  all  the  centuries  lingers 

Aspasia, 
They  still  together  remain,  still  they  shall  love 

in  these  halls. 
Zeus  Laocoon  with  his  fair  children  is  linked  in 

the  serpent, 
Which  has  caught  him  like  Fate  with  all  his 

beautiful  world, 
And  great  throes  of  despair  that  burst  from  the 

pain  of  the  marble 
Herald  the  doom  of  the  time,   tragic  are  also 

the  Gods ; 
Scarce  can  I  keep  back  the  sigh  at  the  death  of 

the  beautiful  ages, 
Petrified  life  of  the  world,  still  it  is  living  in 

stone. 

Silent  passes  the  maiden  through  long  white  lines 
of  fair  idols, 


36  PBORSUS    EETEOESUS. 

Looking  with  joy  on  the  shapes,  yet  too  afraid 

of  her  joy; 
Weaned  with  vision  at  last,  she  began  to  speak 

of  the  Gods  there, 
Standing  in  presence  of  Zeus  who    from    his 

bust  gave  the  nod : 
"Oft  I  have  heard  they   once  were   alive  in  a 

world  of  their  glory; 
In  old  times  they  could  talk,  when  they  were 

worshiped  as  Gods. 
Here  in  Rome  they  had  altars  and  shrines,  were 

entreated  in  prayer, 
Though  they  be  now  of  rock;  heathen   was 

then  all  the  land. 
Blessings  they  sent  by  day  and  by    night,    in 

peace  and  in  warfare  ; 
Then  they  ruled  the  whole  world,  they  were 

the  Kings  of  the  Kings. 
But  there  came  a  great  war  —  the  Gods  fought  — 

and  in  it  were  beaten  ; 
When  they  were  thrown  out  the  sky,  fell  they 

a  stone  to  the  earth." 
Then  she  touched  the  cold  marble  just  with  the 

tip  of  her  finger, 
But   withdrew  it  at  once  when    she   had  felt 

the  dead  chill. 
"  Oh  these  people  of  stone,  how  cold  in  falling 

from  Heaven  I 

And   how  broken  too,  in  the  great  depth  of 
their  fall  I 


ECCE    ROMA.  37 

Still  they  are  found  in  our  soil,  when  we  plow  up 

the  sites  of  old  cities, 
And,   when  we  dig  anywhere,  they  will  turn 

out  of  the  earth ; 
Often  they  rise  without  heads,  though  the  body 

remains  unclecaying, 
Think,  they  once  were  alive,  walked  in  the 

streets  of  the  town, 
With  a  man  they  would  speak  on  the  highway, 

or  in  the  forest, 
And  they  would  help  him  perchance,  if  he  but 

knew  how  to  pray." 
There  she  stopped  for  a  moment  as  if  to  gather 

her  power 
Boldly  to  utter  the  word  which  had  come  up 

in  her  heart : 
"  Nay,   these  Gods  and  Goddesses  loved,  they 

loved  men  and  women, 
Who,  though   mortal,  were  fair,   fair   to  the 

vision  above ; 
Hot  beat  the  hearts  of  the  Gods  in  the  joy  of  the 

love  that  was  human, 
Had  they  been  less  of  the  man,  they  had  not 

been  the  whole  God. 
Theirs    was    the   passion   divine   whose    law    is 

sweetly  fulfillment, 
Then  were  divinity's  sons  born  of  the  mothers 

of  earth. 

So  Rhea    Silvia   once   gave    birth   to    Romulus, 
Remus, 


317137 


38  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Their  high   father   was   Mars,    she    was    the 

mother  of  Rome. 
Still  to-day  we   fondly   go   back   to   her  story 

aforetime, 

Greatest  of  mothers  she  is,  bearing  the  might 
iest  child. 
Oh  the  old  ages  when  Gods   were  sporting   in 

river  and  fountain ! 
They  would   enter  the   home,   give   to  good 

people  their  gifts; 
Now  they  have  to  be  dug  from  the  ground,  from 

the  field  of  their  warfare, 
Gathered  into  this  hall,  whence  they  can  never 

escape, 
For  they  are  prisoners  banned  into  stone  by  the 

Pope  in  his  castle, 
He  will  not  pardon  their  sins,  he  cannot  take 

off  the  curse." 
Almost  in  spite  of  herself  she  colored  her  words 

with  her  pity, 
Dark  in  her  soul  underneath  flowed  a  lone  rill 

from  the  Gods. 
But  I  could  not  help  sighing  aloud  to  her  sigh  : 

"  They  are  free  no  longer  I 
In  a  prison  they  stand  simply  set  up   to    be 

seen. 
Once  when  they  wooed  in  the  world,  they  lived 

with  the  might  of  a  passion, 
Now  they  as  captives  are   held,   suffered  no 
longer  to  love." 


ECCE    ROMA.  39 

Then  she  looked  in  my  eye  as  if  she  suspected 

my  matter, 
All  at  once  a  new  rill  bubbled  up  out  of  the 

depths, 
As    her  words  in   a  mask  took  up   the  tone  of 

inquiry : 
"Have  you  never  yet  heard  they  have  their 

worshipers  still, 
Who  are  scattered  all  over  the  earth,  in  country 

and  city? 
Nobody  knows  who  they  are,  or  at  what  place 

they  may  live ; 
They  are  said  to  be  born  with  a  mark  on  their 

heart  of  this  God-world, 
Which    is    unknown    to    their   friends,    even 

unknown  to  themselves, 
Till   they   read   in   a   blood-sealed   book    which 

secretly  tells  them, 
Then  to  this  worship  they  wake,  though  they 

know  not  what  it  is. 
Soon  they  start  on  a  journey,  they  can  hardly 

tell  whither, 
But  the  road  leads  to  Rome,  still  the  old  haunt 

of  the  Gods, 
Whose  true  followers  secretly  come  on  a  festival 

ancient 
Though  it  be  hid  in  the  day  sacred  perchance 

to  a  Saint. 

Thus  they  flock  from  every  part  of  the  globe, 
from  each  nation  — 


40  PBORSWS    BETKOESUS. 

From  wild  Tartary's  East,  from  new  America's 

West, 
All   who,  born  out   of   time,  are  seeking  their 

ancient  heirship, 
For  they  feel  they  can  find  here  the  old  deities 

yet, 

Who  though  once  hurled  down  to  be  stones,  with 

bodies  all  battered, 
Still  can  arouse  the  same  spell  as  in  the  past 

when  they  breathed, 
For  they  possess  the  God's  power  to  work  upon 

men  in  the  distance, 
And  they  would  lose  this  gift,  if  they  were 

taken  from  Kome." 
Slyly  that  artful  maiden  peeped  into  my  face  as 

she  said  this, 
Trying  to  catch  my  thought  as  it  took  wing  on 

a  glance ; 
"  Is  it  so?  "  I  asked  then  ;  she  answered,  "  Yes,  I 

believe  it ; 
That  is  the  power  they  have,  drawing  their 

own  from  afar." 
Doubtful  she  stood  for  a  moment,  testing  her 

thoughts  in  a  balance, 
Not  quite  sure  of  herself ;  soon  she  was  braced 

to  her  words, 
And  she  continued :  «« Now  the  clock  strikes  to 

ask  you  a  question  : 

Are  you  not  one  of  these  men,  followers  of  the 
old  Gods? 


ECCE    ROMA.  41 

I  confess  to  you,  long   I  have   it   suspected   in 

secret, 
You  have  come   over  the  sea,   thousands    of 

miles,  to  this  spot ; 
You  are  always  haunting   the   sites   of  ruinous 

temples : 
Where  these  idols  are,  thither  you  hurry  and 

stay. 
I  have  noticed  you  scarcely  ever  will  go  to  the 

churches, 
And  when  you  go,  you  hear  never  a  word  of  the 

priest, 
Never  will  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  or  bow  to 

an  image, 
But  you  look  for  old  stones  which  in  the  wall 

may  be  built ; 
Scarcely  you  glance,  as  you  pass,  at  the  picture 

of  Saint  or  Madonna, 
Yet  if  some  statue  be  found  thither  you  run  in 

a  joy. 
Not  one  word  concerning  the  Pope,  no  desire  to 

see  him 
Has  been  uttered  by  you,  though  I  besought 

you  one  day; 
And  when  I  asked  you  to  go  and  witness  the 

grand  crucifixion, 
You  were   silent   as   death,  as   if   I  crucified 

you. 

Once  the  priest  came  and  sprinkled  our  dwelling 
with  sanctified  water, 


42  PROESUS    EETROESUS. 

I  saw  you  laugh  to  yourself  when  you  thought 

I  did  not  see ; 
When  I  asked  you  that  day  if  ever  you  went  to 

confession, 
You  ran  out  of  the  house,  leaving  me  all  to 

myself. 
If  I  but  tell  of  the   miracle  wrought  by  some 

hallowed  relics, 
Though  you  repress  for  my  sake,  you  cannot 

hide  what  you  are. 
Often  you  waft  me  away  with  the  hand  or  shrug 

up  your  shoulders ; 
You  belong  not  to  us,  all  of  your   mind   is 

afar 
Back  in  the  old  days  of  Rome,  although  you  were 

born  in  the  present  —  " 
Just  at  this  moment  she  turned  suddenly  off 

with  her  glance, 
On  the  spot  she  was  changed  as  her  eyes  caressed 

a  small  statue : 
"  See!  this  boy  is  my  choice  if  I  dare  choose 

of  these  stones ; 
Winged  he  moves  while  dreamful  he  looks,  yet 

laughs  at  his  mischief; 
He  cannot  find  what  he  is,  I  have  been  just  in 

his  place. 
Hear  me  !     At  moments  I  seem  to  be  born  back 

into  that  old  life  ; 

When  these  idols  I  see,  I  have  to  love  them 
myself." 


EGCE    ROMA.  43 

Closer  she  drew  to  my  side  and  changed  her  tone 

to  a  whisper, 
For  she  feared  her  own  voice  when  it  burst  out 

of  her  heart, 
Lest  it  might  utter  the  sin  for  which  the  whole 

world  was  once  punished ; 
Still  she  could  not  unsay  what  all  her  being  had 

said; 
There  at  once  I  felt  the  kiss  of  her  soul  —  she 

had  found  me, 

Just  as  I  had  found  her,  when  with  my  heart 
beats  I  cried: 
"  Call  me  by  whatever  name  —  be  it  heathen  — 

I  know  not  my  title, 
Yet  I  know  a  delight  which  I  have  not  felt 

before  ; 

I  cannot  tell  what  it  is,  it  came  to  me  first  with 
out  knowledge, 

o     • 

Even  far  back  in  my  years,  longing  I  felt  for  a 

.world 
Which  had  passed  on  its  course  and  taken  my 

heritage  lovely ; 
Groping  amid  the  dim  Past,  stumbling  around 

the  wide  globe, 
Over  the  ruins  of  Rome  I  fell  in  the  midst  of  my 

journey, 
When  I  looked  up  I  beheld  just  the  fair  world 

that  I  sought." 

"  Tell   then,"    she    begged    me,    "  what  is  the 
festival  you  are  now  keeping? 


44  PltORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

For  a  festal  look  you  have  been  showing  all 

day." 
"  This,"  I  replied,  "  is  the  holiday  sweet  of  the 

Muses  and  Amor, 
Come  now,  let  us  go  home,  out  of  this  marble 

to  life." 


3.  The  Roman  Holiday. 

Stones  with  voices,  columns  with  music,  temples 

with  language, 
Open  your  lips   once   more,   speak    me  your 

spirit's  still  word! 
Threading  your  ancient  piles,  I  always  comeback 

to  the  modern, 
Hunting  for  aught  far  away,  I  have  discovered 

myself. 
Give  me  the  key-note  of  your  great   orchestra 

hewn  out  of  marble 
That  the  thought  and  the  word  I  may  attune 

to  your  strain. 
What  is  that  voice   from  the   ruins !  its  music 

sings  out  of  the  distance  ! 
What  is  that  form  I  behold!  lovely  its  look 

turns  to  me. 
Is  it  the  sound  or  the  sight?   O  Rome,  art  thou 

song  or  a  statue  ?     • 

I  cannot  tell  what  thou  art,  I  do  not  know 
what  I  am. 


ECCE    ROMA.  45 

Let  me  be  danced  on  thy  billows  of  joy  till  I  sink 

in  thy  ocean  ! 

Listen !   already   the  strain !    See  them  !    the 
Goddesses  come ! 

\ 
All  the  Muses  are   dancing  a   measure   around 

Hippocrene, 
Whose  clear  waters  return  ever  their  shapes  to 

the  eye; 
All  the  fair  forms  are  divinely  set  free  from  the 

prison  of  garments, 
With  a  light  veil  round  the  loins,  gently  they 

sway  to  the  wind ; 
All  the  Nine  Sisters  of  song  are  sharing  one  soul 

in  their  beauty, 
There  is  now  not  a  Muse  absent  or  slighting 

her  joy. 
Often   with   hands  joined  together  they  swiftly 

encircle  the  fountain, 
Round  it  a  garland  they  weave,  which  of  their 

bodies  is  made ; 
Often   by   threes  they  glide  through  curves  of 

mellifluous  movement, 

In  a  succession  of  wreaths  crowning  the  pearl- 
dropping  spring ; 
Often   they   singly   are    leaping    with    graceful 

intoxication, 

Carving  by  gesture  reliefs  on  the  clear  frieze 
of  the  air. 


46  PBORSUS    EETEOESUS. 

Always  their  bodies  are  singing  in  happy  har 
monious  chorus, 
Singing  by  motion  they  are    like    the  sweet 

stars  of  the  sky. 

Always  they  turn  to  the  fount  that  holds  up  be 
fore  them  its  mirror, 
In  it  they  look  at  their  forms,  looking  they 

show  too  the  soul. 

Always  they  dwell  in  a  temple  of  golden  Olym 
pian  sunshine ; 

Say  can  the  shade  of  a  cloud  ever  pass  over 
this  world? 

Suddenly,  madly   into   the   group    of    innocent 

Muses 
Down  lights  Amor  the  Winged.     Shivered  to 

drops  is  the  rill, 
Hippocrene  grows  turbid  and  restless,  stirred  by 

some  passion, 
While  the  dancers  have  ceased  dancing  their 

wreaths  on  the  brink. 
How  each  Muse  endeavors  to  take  the  boy  to  her 

bosom  I 
Kisses  his  forehead  and  lips  in  a  wild  frenzy 

of  love  1 
Amor,  thou  rogue  of  a  Godling,  all  Nine  at  once 

are  thy  trophy, 

Each  too  being  a  Muse  dowered  with  beauty 
divine ; 


ECGE    ROMA.  47 

Was   not  one  quite   enough   for   thy   triumph, 

insatiable  gallant? 

Must  thou  have  all  in  thy  might,  meekly  obey 
ing  thy  nod? 
Darest  thou  here,  in  the  ancient  walls  of  the 

conqueress  mighty, 
Make  thy  conquest  too,  swaying  the  body  at 

will? 
Darest   thou    here,    in    the    sacred    shades    of 

hundreds  of  churches, 
Build  thy  heathen  shrine,  guiding  the  soul  by 

thy  torch? 
Yes,    so   it    is  —  each    Muse    has    become    the 

servant  of  Amor, 
Every  note  of  her  voice  can  but  re-echo  his 

name, 
Which  has  been  sung  by  the  marbles  of  Rome 

for  ages  on  ages 
In  her  temples  and  halls,  e'en  it  is  heard  from 

her  tombs. 
Amor,  smallest  of  Gods,  is  the  tyrant  of  sunny 

Parnassus, 
Where  he  is  perched  on  the  peak,  shooting  his 

darts  round  the  world. 
But  behold!  now  he  comes,  the  lord  of  mighty 

Quirinus, 
On    whose  seven  hills  high  he  triumphantly 

sits ; 

Still  the  deceiver,  he  hides  his  dart  in  the  folds 
of  the  Muses  j 


48  PROKSUS    RETEORSUS. 

Whoever  seeks  their  embrace,  by  his  sly  arrow 

is  stung.  « 

O  ye  shrines  and  temples  and  statues,  I  feel  your 

true  worship, 
Now  I  have  found  out  your  heart,  felt  too  its 

beat  in  my  breast ; 
And  ye  musical  fountains  throbbing  up  over  the 

city, 
Now  I  know  whence  ye  come,  what  too  ye  say 

in  your  joy  : 
All  the  world  thou  art,  O  Rome,  and  yet  without 

Amor, 

All  the  world  is  no  world,  Rome  too  alone  is 
not  Rome. 


4    Found. 

O,  but  the  pleasure  —  and  yet  it  is  something  far 

more  than  a  pleasure 
Which  I  am  having  at  Rome,  strolling  in  paths 

of  the  past. 
What  is  the  cause  of  this  lofty  attunement  of  all 

of  the  senses, 

Waking  a  music  within  unto  the  music  with 
out? 
And  there  is  irresistible  pressure  of  song  in  each 

heart-throb, 

Seeking  to  measure  itself  out  of  the  old  to  the 
new. 


ECCE    ROMA.  49 

Give  me  the  beat  of  thy  numbers,  O  City,  sing 

me  the  key-note 
Which  may  be  heard  underneath  all  thy  great 

Present  and  Past. 
As  to-day  I  sauntered  along  by  the  banks  of  the 

Tiber, 

An  old  lute-string  I  found  dropped  in  the  rub 
bish  of  time; 
Out  of  the  refuse  I  plucked  the  musical  chord  of 

the  Ancients, 
Soon  I  had  cleansed  it  of  filth  by  a  quick  bath 

in  the  stream ; 
Home  I  hastened  with  joy,  in  triumph  bearing 

the  treasure, 
Fastened  the  string  to  a  shell  that  in  my  room 

hung  unused, 
Lightly  I  touched  the  new-strung  chord  with  the 

tip  of  my  finger, 
Hearkened   the   while  for   the  note  which   it 

might  throb  to  the  air, 
For,   O  Propertius,  I  thought  it  might  whisper 

the  name  of  thy  beauty, 
Or  invoke  a  fair   shape   loved  by  a  lyrist  of 

old; 

But  another  it  lisped  in  words  that  were  shock 
ingly  modern, 
Yet    with    a    rhythmical  stride  tuned  to  the 

step  of  a  Greek ; 

Only  the  name  of  a  maiden  it  hums  now  —  the 
stubborn  old  lute-string; 


50  PSOBSUS    RETRORSUS. 

But  her  dear  body  it  wraps  in  a  soft  echo  of 

folds, 
So  that  she  moves  in  the  drapery  ta'en  from  the 

Goddesses'  wardrobe, 
When  they  once  dwelt  on  the  earth,  roaming 

with  men  in  the  fields. 


5.  The  Open  Secret 

O  ye  talking  marbles,  galleries,  palaces,  ruins, 
What  is  the  tale  that  I  hear    told    by   your 

voices  of  stone  ? 
Now  before  you  I  stand  and  joyously  live  in  your 

presence, 

Question  you  much  about   Fate   which  over 
took  you  of  old. 
Speak  from   the  heart  of  your   hearts   to    the 

stranger  your  powerful  secret, 
Which  has  drawn  him   to  Rome  wholly   un 
known  to  himself. 
All  day  long  in  your  company  strolling  I  eagerly 

hearken 
What  to  each  other  you  say,   what   you  are 

saying  to  me. 

And  ye  beautiful  idols,  let  me  interrogate  briefly : 
Once  driven  out  of  the  world,  why  now  return 

ye  to  me? 

Say,  does  Amor  always  fly  hither  in  search  of 
his  Psyche? 


ECCE    £OMA.  51 

Do  they,  coming  in  stealth,  find  one  another 

inKome? 
Look,  a  dark  eye  of  the  South  has  been  kindled, 

I  feel  its  fierce  ardor 
Firing  the   air  in   its  path  with    an    invisible 

flame ; 
Coal  I  supposed  to  be  black,  but  this  jet  of  thine 

eye  is  far  blacker  ; 
Inside  I  know  is  a  mine,  see,  too,  the  mine  is 

on  fire. 
Filled  with  wonder  and  warmth,  I  gaze  at  the 

spray  of  its  sparkles, 
Down  it  drops  at  my  glance,  shutting  me  out 

with  its  lid. 
What   is   this  mystery   seen  in  the   eyes  —  the 

darker  the  brighter? 
And  the  severer  the  burn,  so  much  the  more  is 

the  joy? 
Nought  can  I  see  now,  under  an  arbor  of  long 

slender  lashes 
Gracefully  curving  around,  lie  in  concealment 

the  orbs, 

While  above  there  glistens  a  frieze  of  the  whit 
est  Carrera 
Resting  on  two  arches  dark  where  is  the  portal 

of  sight. 
Cursed  is  ever  the  luck  of  the  lover,  my  torch  is 

extinguished 

Just  the  moment  it   lit,  held  in  the  blaze  of 
thine  eye. 


52  PSOKSUS    BETRORSUS. 

Now  like  a  gleed  that  is  dropped  in  its  glow  on 

the  surface  of  water, 
It  not  only  is  quenched,  but  it  is  fuming  in 

rage. 

Tender  and  fine  is  this  flameletof  love,  and  pecu 
liar  in  nature ; 
It  must  be  kindled  anew  with  every  breath  of 

the  soul, 
Else  it  goes  out  with  a  puff  that  leaves  us  in 

dreariest  darkness, 
Wherein  demons  run  wild,  feasting  on  hearts 

of  despair. 
Seldom  the  flame  will  burn  of   itself,  of  its  own 

precious  matter ; 
Eye  must  look  deep   into  eye,  both  are  then 

kindled  at  once. 
What  shall  I  do?     My  look  turns  away  to  relieve 

disappointment, 
Seeks  new  objects  of  sight,  rests  on  the  form 

of  a  boy 
Who  appears  to  shoot  from  a  gleam  and  to  glide 

into  figure, 
On   light   pinions  afloat —  who  can  it   be,  do 

you  think? 

Fresh-fledged  Amor  it  is,  eternally  flying  in  mar 
ble, 
Now   more  than  ever  he  speeds,  bent  on  the 

weightiest  task. 

In  the  unsteady  soft  light  of  the  Moon,  the  lamp 
lit  for  lovers, 


ECCE    ROMA.  53 

That  with  a  sheet  of  white   mist  covers  the 

court  where  we  sit, 
Pallid  marble  has  won  a  new  life,  and  is  gifted 

with  motion: 
Amor  now  starts  from  his  base,  reaching  aside 

for  his  bow, 

Carefully  too   he   chooses   a  fine-pointed,    well- 
feathered  arrow 
From  a  full  quiver  of  bolts  slung  at  his  side 

from  a  belt. 
Placed  on  the  notch  is   the  string,  to  the  barb 

drawn  back  is  the  missile, 
Steady  he  taketh  his  aim,  fixed  on  I  know  not 

what  mark. 
Brave  little  Amor  was  floating  in  mild  undulations 

of  moonshine, 
Chirp    sang  the  bow-string  released  — where 

has  fallen  the  shaft  ? 
Startled  from  dreams  by  the  twang  of  the  bow 

and  the  whiz  of  the  arrow, 
To  the   maiden   I    turned    speedily    casting   a 

glance, 
Spying  out  whether  she  too  had  seen  the  wild 

doings  of  Amor  — 
Mad,  mysterious  boy,  recklessly  shooting  his 

darts 
In  the  dim  moonshine  which  charms  the  eye  to 

a  lull  sympathetic, 

Till  dull  flesh  turns  to  sleep   while  the  light 
soul  is  a  dream. 


54  PBORSUS    BETBORSUS. 

Gods !  each  ray  of  her  eye  has  become  a  fleet 

fiery  arrow, 
Through  my  poor  bosom  have  passed  quiver 

and  bolts  and  the  bow. 
Now   I   can   tell  you   where  that  shaft  of  mad 

Amor  has  fallen, 
Why  he  moved  from  his  base  wrapped  in  the 

robes  of  the  Moon. 
Colonnades  Roman,  by  night  and  by  day,  what 

lessons  ye  teach  me, 
As  I  wander  in  joy  through  all  your  forests  of 

stone ! 
Now  I  know  what  you  mean,  ye  parks,  museums 

and  gardens, 
What  ye  galleries  say,  peopled  with  sculpture 

antique ; 
All  of  you  hold  in  your  hearts  the  beautiful  secret 

of  Nature, 
Which  you    whisper    to   me     haunting  your 

presence  just  now : 
"  We  are  the  servants  of  Amor,  through  us  he 

discovers  his  Psyche, 
Each  of  them  comes  to  our  Rome  out  of  the 

ends  of  the  earth, 
Both  of  them  longing,  yet  wholly  unable  to  tell 

what  they  long  for, 
Till  they  enter  our  home,  still  the  old  home  of 

the  Gods. 

When  the  two  lovers  behold  us,  then  they  have 
found  one  another, 


ECCE    KOMA.  55 

E'en  in  the  church  they  embrace,  taking  it  all 
to  themselves." 


6.  August  Roma  and  Roman  Augusta. 

Speak  to  me,  Rome,   what   art  thou  —  heathen, 

barbarian,  or  Christian  ? 

Or  perchance  all  three  blended  together  in  one? 
Three  great  Romes  I  can  see,  the  old  and  the 

new  and  the  middle  ; 
Tell  me   where   I   belong,  I   do  not  know  it 

myself. 
When  I  look  at  these  ruins  and  temples,  I  am  an 

old  Roman, 
But  when   the  maiden  appears,  down   to   the 

present  I  drop 
Suddenly  through  two  thousand   years  without 

ever  stopping, 
Then  I  take  breath  from  the  fall,  I  am  again 

on  my  feet. 
Two  are  my  fair  ones,  august  Roma  and  Roman 

Augusta, 
They  together  belong  both  in  the  name  and  the 

deed. 
One    has  beauty   of    greatness,   the   other   has 

greatness  of  beauty, 
Each  is  the  image  of  each,  mother  and  daughter 

I  love. 

But  the  time  is  too  precious  just  now  to  praise 
the  high  mother, 


56  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Here  is  the  daughter  alone  springing  down 

into  my  boat, 
For  an  afternoon  ride  on  the  back  of  old  Father 

Tiber ; 
Gaily  she  seizes  the  oars,  over  the  current  we 

speed, 
Merrily  dancing  along  on  the  up  and  the  down 

of  the  wavelets, 
To  some  invisible  heart  swelling  and  sinking 

in  tune. 
Stay,  O  Sun,  in  thy  course,  restrain  the  mad 

flight  of  the  Hours, 
Look  from  thy  chariot  on  high,  ponder  the 

glories  of  Eome ; 
Nothing  so  great  has  ever  rose   under  thine  eye 

on  this  planet, 
Thou,  I  know,  hast  seen  all,  measuring  bloom 

and  decay ; 
Stop  thy  steeds  for  to-day,  let  them  rest  on  the 

slopes  of  the  mountains 
Ere  thou  fling  thyself  down  under  the  waves 

of  the  sea ; 

Pour  thy  fiery  glances  over  the  grand  Colosseum, 
Burnish  anew  the  old  fanes  with  thy  warm 

shimmer  of  gold, 
Climb  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's  as  if  thou  wert 

mounting  the  heavens, 

Peep    with    thy    passionate    gleam    into  the 
windows  and  halls. 


ECCE    EOMA.  57 

Cast  all  thy  glow  on  the  yellowish  curls  of  old 

Father  Tiber, 
Stoop  down  into  his  bed,  swim  with  him  here 

at  our  side, 
Enter  the  boat,  and  look  along  with  me  on  her 

who  is  lovely, 
Hark,  the  sweep  of  her  arm  sings  a  refrain  to 

the  boat; 
As  it  rises  and  falls  to  the  rythmical  flow  of  the 

water, 
Beautiful  verses  she  makes  out  of  thy  sunshine 

to-day. 

Verses  —  them  I  shall  copy  —  Where  is  my  note 
book?     List  to  the  time-bent  — 
One  with  the  heart  of  the  world,  one  with  the 

old  and  the  new. — 
"  Give    me  your    glances   and    spare    me   your 

numbers,"  the  maiden  responded, 
"  Tethered  your  tongue  cannot  move  to  the 

grand  gait  of  the  South." 
"  Nay   but  I   must,"  I  replied,  and  started  at 

once  with  my  task  there, 
Making  all  of  great  Rome  dance  up  and  down 

to  the  beat; 
"  See  my  refractory  English  keeping  its  stroke 

to  thy  oar-blades, 
And  with  thy  body    I   count    measures    that 

flow  like  the  folds, 
Running  into  hexameters,  into  pentameters  also, 


58  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

With  the  to  and  the  fro  rolled  from  the  sway 

of  thy  shape. 
Thus  my  lines  I  set  down,  borne  along  by  the 

joy  of  the  current ; 
Who  can  resist  the  sweet  spell,  waked  In  the 

heart  by  the  Muse  ? 
But  I  confess  at  times  I  am  lost  in  the  trance  of 

thy  movement ; 
And  I  miss  the  right  stroke  in  the  delight  of 

my  mood  ; 
Blame  me  not  if  once  in  a  while  I  fall  out  of 

measure, 
With  a  fresh  look  at  thy  form  I  shall  come 

back  to  myself. 
In  this  presence  old  Homer  would  madly  break 

loose  from  his  numbers, 
For  a  caress  now  and  then,  freed  from   the 

bondage  of  speech." 
Then  I  pick  up  my  dangling  line,  just  where  I  had 

dropped  it, 
Mend  it  anew  with   a   word  —  none  can  say 

where  was  the  break. 
Thus  we  dally  down  stream  till  we  pass  by  Monte 

Testaccio, 
Dreaming  the  dream  of  the  world,  as  it  here 

happened  in  Time. 
Through  the  centuries  past  we  are  floating  down 

into  the  present, 

Into  the  future  we  glide,  castles  we  see  in  its 
dawn. 


ECCE    ROMA.  59 

Suddenly  springs  up  the  maiden,  dropping  the 

oars  in  her  terror ; 
"  How  shall  we  ever  get  back  over  the  dash  of 

the  waves? 
I  must  turn  round  and  work  for  dear  life  against 

the  wild  current ; 
Harder  it  is  to  stem,  when  you  have  gone  with 

the  stream." 
"  Be  not  anxious,  O  Dearest,  fling  to  the  Fates 

what  must  be, 
Is  not  to-day  a  reward  for  all  the  spite  that 

can  come? 
Leave    thyself    to   the    Gods,   and   follow  wise 

Tiber's  example, 
He   forever   flows  down,  down  to  the  infinite 

sea, 
But  he  somehow  always  returns  to  the  tops  of  the 

mountains, 
Whence  again  he  descends  into  the  valley  and 

plain. 
Two  are  the  streams  of  the  wonderful  river,  the 

upper  and  lower, 
Mounting   in   clouds  to  his  source,  falling  in 

rills  to  the  sea, 
Down  hill  to-day  on  the  earth,  to-morrow  up  hill 

through  the  heavens  — 

Give  me  an  oar  !  there  it  strikes  !  now  I  shall 
help  thee  turn  round." 


60  PBOBSUS    BETBOBSUS. 

7.     On  the  Pincio. 

Grand   is  the   sight   and   sovereign  —  look  and 

become  immortal ! 
All   of  the   city  is  set  golden  in  rays  of  the 

sun; 
Dearest,  stand  here  and  sweep  over  Rome  from 

this  height  on  the  Pincio  ! 
What  has  ruled  in  our  world  thou  wilt  now  see 

in  a  glance. 
Here  to  the  left  is  the  Capitol,  there  to  the  front 

is  St.  Peter's  — 
Two  great   masters   of  Time   seated   on  two 

Roman  hills. 
Sung  by  the  musical  stones  from  the  tops  of  the 

loftiest  steeples, 
Chanted    by    grim  grizzled  walls  which    the 

dark  cloister  engird, 
Whispered  even  by  urns  whose  ashes  long  since 

have  been  scattered, 
What  is  that  voice  over  all?     Hear  it  again  in 

these  lines. 
One  great  word  I  can  catch  from  the  heart  of  the 

city  eternal, 
That  is  the  word  which  unites  two  loving  hearts 

into  one. 
Come,  let  us  turn  to  these  trees  for  relief,  we 

are  gilding  the  daylight, 

Dreaming  the  hours  away  drowned  in  a  worldf  ul 
of  joy. 


ECCE    ROMA.  61 

Let  us  seek  some  repose  from  the  pitiless  arrows 

of  Amor, 
Under  this  deep-leaved  oak  watching  himself 

in  the  pool. 
How   serenely   he  gazes    in   mild  contemplation 

forever 
Viewing  his  sinuous  limbs  knotted  in  might  for 

the  blasts ! 
Stooping  forward  a  little  for  firmness  he  stands 

like  an  athlete 
Ready  to  strike  or  be  struck  ;  covered  with  moss 

are  old  wounds. 
Here  on  his  roots  let  us  rest  like  the  idle  poetical 

shepherd, 
While  we  look  at  yon  swan  sporting  his  down 

on  the  pond. 
Beautiful  oarsman  in  white,  he  propels  unerring 

his  pinnace, 
In  each  movement  is  grace,  in  all  exertion  is 

ease. 
Placid  is  sleeping  the  water,  showing   pellucid 

the  bottom, 
Only  the  yawl  of  the  bird  laughingly  wrinkles 

its  face. 
See  the  oars  of  his  feet,  how  they  work  in  motion 

transparent ! 
Under  the  water  the  down  sendeth  the  gleam 

of  the  dawn. 

Proudly  rises  the  neck  of  the  swimmer  upheld  by 
the  Graces, 


62  PBORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Sweeter  than  honey  of  bees  is  the  distillment 

of  form. 
With  one  thrust  through  the  crystalline  surface 

down  to  the  bottom 
Deftly  its  ebony  bill  spoons  up  the  glittering 

sand. 
Gracefully  curves  that  long  supple  neck  with  its 

feathery  flexure, 
As  in  a  crystal  preserved,  though  it  is  moving 

the  while. 
Bird,  a  sculpture  thou  art,  disrobed  of    Pentel- 

can  marble, 
Clear  as  the  light  is  thy  life,  beautiful,  too,  as 

this  day ; 

Or  a  God  perchance,  into  thine  his  body  trans 
muting, 
Bringing    thy    fragrance    of    form    from  his 

Olympian  home. 
Leda  once  sat  on  this  bank  and  gazed  at  thy  neck 

till  she  loved  thee  ; 
Softly  thou  swim'st  to  the  brink,  holding  her 

eye  in  thy  power  ; 
Up  the  bank  thou  hast  crept,  how  white  are  the 

arms  that  surround  thee  ! 
Like  the  marble  the   breast  where   thou   art 

clasped  in  embrace; 
Loosened  now  is  the  zone,  revealing  the  shape  of 

the  Graces, 

In  that  old   innocent  world  free  of  our  guilt 
and  our  shame ; 


ECCE    BOMA.  63 

Under  the  strokes  of  her  palm  rears  the  neck  of 

the  silvery  swimmer, 
Quivering  fiercely  with  joy  in  the  soft  wake  of 

her  hand ; 
Look !  the  swan  is  changing !  the  plumage  turns 

to  a  lover 
Who  appears  a  white  form  like  in  his  glance  to 

a  God! 

Do  I  yonder  behold  the  summit  of  snowy  Olym 
pus? 
Is  it  Zeus  that  I  see,  father  of  Gods  and  of 

men?  — 
Dearest,   again    he    is   here, — that    untamable 

rogue  of  an  Amor, 
He  has  transformed  himself  into  the  swan  on 

the  pool; 
With  his  white  plumes  he  feathers  his  arrow  so 

subtle,  unerring, 
Now  the  whole  bird  is  cloud  streaming  forth 

showers  of  darts ; 
Vain  is  the  flight  from  a  God  who  commands  like 

a  tyrant  all  Nature, 
Changing  it  at  his  caprice  into  sly  weapons  of 

war. 
Running  away  from  Love's  bolt,  I  run  right  into 

his  battle, 

Fleeing  the  face  of  a  God  is  but  to  leap  to  his 
arms. 


I 

64  PSOBSUS    EETEOESUS. 

What  a  world  thou  art,  O  Rome !  and  yet  I  would 

have  thee  none  other, 

Wert  thou  not  what  thou  art  I  could  not  be 
what  I  am. 


8.    In  a  Roman  Wineshop. 

Mountains  are  laughing  for  glee,  and  the  willows 

are  weeping  for  gladness, 
Even  the  winds  give  a  sigh  from  the  excess  of 

their  joy, 
Trees   come  out  in  their  passionate  green,  and 

are  kissed  by  the  summer 
"While  the  amorous  vine  fondly  is  hugging  the 

elm, 
In  each  other's  embrace  both  shoot  into  leaflets 

and  fruitage ; 
High  the  herds  on  the  hills  rollick  together  in 

pairs. 
Nature  has  put  on  to-day  her  new  dress  with  a 

thousand  of  jewels, 
One  huge  diamond  the  sea  sprinkles  the  air  full 

of  stars, 
Emeralds  cover  the  slopes,  amethystine  the  bend 

of  the  heavens, 
While  the  clouds  are  just  now  purest  of  pearls 

set  in  gold, 

Which  the  first  goldsmith,  the  sun,  has  blazoned 
with  all  of  his  cunning 


ECCE    ROMA.  65 

For    the   necklaces   fair   worn   by   Olympian 

queens. 
Yonder  the  Tiber  is  pouring  in  fun  the  flood  of 

his  amber, 
But  a  ruby  I  hold,  gem  of  all  gems,  in  my 

hand, 
Laughing  me  straight  in  the  eye  with  hundreds 

and  hundreds  of  sparkles, 
Ogling,  coquetting  in  gleams,  filling  the  room 

full  of  smiles  — 
"Tis  this  wine.    "  Say,  what  is  thy  name,  dear 

youth?"  "  Alessandro." 
"  Hast  thou  been  long  in  Rome?  "  —  "In  the 

next  house  I  was  born.  "  — 
"  And  thou  servest  this  wine  of  the  Gods  for  the 

banquet  of  strangers  ? 
And  the  grace  of  thy  form  here  thou  dost  pour 

with  the  draught? 
Ganymede  be  thou  to  me,  witfh  thee  I  shall  mount 

to  Olympus; 
Speed  thee,  another  full  bowl   rounded  with 

rubious  beads." 
See  !  Alexander  the  Great  has  become  Alessandro 

the  Greater 
Who  is  a  conqueror  too,  helping  me  conquer 

the  world. 
O  ye  Great  Men  of  Rome,  ye  children  of  glory 

eternal, 

What  is  your  triumph  to  mine,  here  as  I  sit  in 
your  place  ? 

5 


66  PBOBSUS    BETBOBSUS. 

Thou,  O  Csesar,  mayst  push  out  thine  arms  to 

the  ends  of  the  empire, 
Over  the  Euphrates  leap,  mount  to  springs  of 

the  Nile, 
Reach  over  Britain  afar,  and  take  in  thy  hand 

the  whole  Earth-ball  — 
Still  too  small  are  its  bounds  for  all  thy  might 

and  thy  mind. 
Put  under  law  all  the  nations,  mark  out  the  path 

of  the  ages, 
Stride  from  the   east  to  the   west,   sweeping 

aloft  with  the  sun, 
High  overarch  with  thy  deed  the  past,  the  present, 

the  future  — 

I  to  the  wineshop  shall  go,  lord  of  the  universe 
too. 


9.  The  Roman  Cupbearer. 

Alessandro,  the  wine   that   is   poured  with  thy 

hand  has  a  flavor 

That  not  elsewhere  in  Rome  has  been  revealed 
to  my  lips. 

Now  thou  art  humbly  a  cupbearer  here  in  this 

old  dingy  tavern 

Who  once  nectar  didst  serve  in  the  bright  pal 
ace  of  Jove. 

The  aroma  of  banquets  ambrosial  breathes  from 
thy  manner 


ECCE    ROMA.  67 

As  thou  biddest  the  guest  here  to  recline  for 

his  cup ; 

And  thy  movement  already  imparts  to  me  inebri 
ation 
Ere  the  wine  has  been  raised  to  my  unhallowed 

lips.  — 
Mark  but  the  path  of  his  body  as  lightly  he  treads 

through  the  winehall 
For  the  Graces  you  see  drawing  each  line  of 

his  gait ; 
Would  that  his  walk  to  yon  door  this    instant 

were  frozen  to  marble ! 
So  might  I  always  behold  how  young  Apollo 

doth  move. 
Cannot  those  outlines  of  air  through  which  he  has 

passed,  be  transmuted 

By  some  magical  breath  into  Carrera  the  white? 
Long  ago  lived  a  race  which  had  faith  in  beauty 

immortal, 

Faith  created  a  hand  gifted  with  cunning  di 
vine, 
And  that  hand  could  turn  into  stone  at  the  touch 

of  a  finger 
Mild  repose  of  the  God,  or  his  swift  movement 

in  wrath. 
But   that   race   has  departed,  -and  now   for  the 

deed  of  the  Hero 

Is  but  the  mould  of   the  air   into  which  first  it 
was  cast, 


68  PBOBSUS    BETRORSUS. 

So  that  the  godlike  action  is  seen  in  the  world  no 

longer 
Fixed  for  the  eye  in  the  form  which  it  received 

at  its  birth.  — 
Here  thou  comest  with   Bacchus  — fill   to    the 

brim,  Alessandro ; 
O,  thou  art  pouring  thy  grace  with  the  clear 

stream  of  the  wine. 
Thou,  I  now  know,  wert  Ganymede,  cupbearer  of 

the  Immortals, 
And   immortal    thyself,   shining   serenely    as 

they. 
For  the  old  Gods  of  Greece  are  here  passing  their 

ages  of  penance, 
Here  at   Rome,  for  their  sins ;    one  sees  them 

oft  in  the  streets, 
Oft  in  churches,  in   penitent   prayer    for  some 

restoration, 
Darkly  feeling  their  fall  from  a  divinely  high 

world. 
But  Alessandro,  thy   food  still   droppeth   from 

tables  celestial, 
Graces  thy  body  annoint,  though  they  refuse 

their  long  folds. 
Happy  symposiums  held  long  ago  in  the  halls  of 

Olympus 
Look  from  thine  eye  of   delight,  show  in  the 

wave  of  thy  hand. 

On  the  air  the  soft  undulation  of  movement  is 
sculptured 


ECCE    ROMA.  69 

As  thou  disdainest  the  floor  with  thy  invisible 

wings  ; 
Worthy  in  beauty  to  deck  the  high  frieze  of  some 

ancient  temple 
Would  be  the  lines  of  thy  limbs  raised   from 

the  Parian  block. 

Youth  too  bathes  thy  muscles  so  light  in  its  tire 
less  essence, 
Thou  dost  spring  with  the  morn  till  the  mid 

watches  of  night ; 
Still  thy  limbs  are  not  weary,  thy  gait  is  tilled 

with  its  motion, 
Not  a  line  shrinks  away  though  all  thy  minutes 

are  leaps ; 
Nor  have  I  ever  beheld  thy  features  grow  dark 

with  vexation, 
But  thy  humor  serene  laughingly  sparkles  at 

Fate. 
Intoxication  thou  art,  Alessandro  —  I  feel  its  mild 

madness 
Fragrantly  rise  to  my  brain,  subtly  commingled 

with  wine. 
Thee  I  bespeak  when  my  journey  has  led  to  the 

winehall  of  Hades  ; 

Cupbearer   mine  thou  shalt   be  when  I  shall 
quaff  with  the  shades. 


70  PBOttSUS    KETRORSUS. 


10.     The  Goddess  of  the  Capitol. 

Joyfully   all  the   day  long  I  visit  the  galleries 

Roman, 
Sink  in  their  spirit  and  spell  till  to  my  time  I 

am  lost; 
How  the  glad  Hours  pour  up  to  the  brim  the 

wine  of  enjoyment, 
Till  the  cup,  overfull,  spills  its  choice  drops  on 

the  ground ! 
Quite  too  much  have  I  seen  a?id  enjoyed  of  this 

banquet  immortal, 
Senses  are  dulled  with  delight,  I  cannot  look 

any  more. 
So  I  say  to  myself:  I  now  shall  go  home  for  my 

sunshine, 
After  a  kindly  rest,  I  shall  take  hold  of  my 

pen, 
And  a  poem  shall  write  that  runs  to  the  beat  of 

old  measures, 
Though  they  must  speak  my  own  tongue, 

speak,  too,  my  heart  in  their  words. 
Then  I  reflect  just  how  I  may  build  the  new  work 

to  perfection : 
In  this  Rome  it  must  lie,  as  in  a  setting  of 

pearls, 

And  it  must  have  the  long  colonnade  of  a  classical 
temple, 


ECCE    BOMA.  71 

Through  whose  spaces  is  seen  freely  this  Na 
ture  outside, 
But  within  the  fair  temple  must  rise  up  the  holy 

inclosure, 
Where  the  high  Goddess  doth  stand,  lit  from 

the  light  of  the  sky. 
Unto  her  I  shall  hymn  in  all  the  keen  rapture  of 

beauty, 

Then  in  life  I  must  have  what  is  her  counter 
part  true ; 
Naked  and  cold  are  these  marble  joys  of  ideal 

existence, 
If  flesh  and  blood  do  not  come  warming  their 

nudity  chill. 
Thus  I  have  planned,  already  the  measures  are 

humming  within  me, 
Even  I  change  rny  gait,  for   I   must  walk  to 

their  stroke ; 
Slowly  I  saunter  along  by  myself  on  the  way  of 

Four  Fountains, 
Look  at  Quirinalthe  grand,  rounding  a  verse  to 

my  mood ; 
See !  a  shape  darts  past !  in  disguise  yet  seeming 

to  know  me ! 
Hiding  itself  it  appears,  willing  yet  not  to  be 

hid. 
I  must  follow  the  charm  and  discover  this  secret 

of  nature : 

Ha  !  it  is  thou  in  a  mask,  telling  me  still  what 
thou  art. 


72  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Why  hast  thou  covered  to-day  the  Junonian  bend 

of  thy  forehead 
With  that  envious  hood  made  to  conceal  what 

is  fair? 
Under   monotonous    wrappage   thou   hidest  the 

sweep  of  thy  figure, 
That  once  rose  in  soft  swells  through  all  the 

harmonies  sweet; 

And  the  caress  of  mine  eye  thou   refusest,  un 
scrupulous  maiden 
After   toying  so  oft  with  its  fond  credulous 

beams? 
Now  it  is  time,  I  see,  of  myself  to  disburden  thy 

presence ; 
Yet  unwilling  art  thou  that  I  at  once  should  be 

gone? 
Fair  dissembler,  I  know  thee ;  —  'tis  an  old  trick 

of  you  women : 
You  will  seem  hard  to  catch  when  you  already 

are  caught. 

Strange  how  early  young  Amor,  divine  precep 
tor,  has  taught  you 
That  we  men  love  the  chase,  when  we  must 

toil  for  the  game. 
Ha !  the  trouble  I  see,  thou  art  jealous  of  stones 

and  of  statues  1 
To    the    Goddesses    fair    overmuch   time    I 

devote. 

Come  now,  let  us  talk  sense ;  each  word  be  the 
word  of  pure  wisdom, 


ECCE    ROMA.  73 

Speedy  amends  I  shall  make,  reaping  the  har 
vest  of  Rome. 
Here  sit  down  at  my  side,  and  let  me  recount  to 

thy  glances 

What  to-day  I  have  found,  seeking  the  treas 
ures  of  sight. 
Quick   was   my   step   this   morn  to  ascend   the 

Capitoline  Hillock, 
There   to  behold  the  fair   forms  which   were 

once  worshiped  as  Gods. 
Through  the  long  passage  I  wandered  where,  on 

each  side  of  the  gazer, 
Hoar  divinities  look,  yet  they  appear  not  to 

look. 
Many  a  shape  I  beheld  of  the  Csesars,  great  men 

and  women; 
Dreamful  Brutus  was  there,  man  with  the  face 

of  a  child ; 
On  a  tree  leaned  the  Satyr,  shiftless,  in  sunshine 

eternal, 
While  Alexander    the   Great    conquered    the 

world  at  a  glance ; 
Youthful   Antinous   gazed   upon   Fate  with  the 

sorrow  of  ages, 
In  the  center  lay  Death  — turn,  let  us  go  back 

to  Life. 
Then  alone  in  a  joy  I  slipped  to  the  chamber  of 

Venus, 

Who  here  awaits  at  her  shrine  those  who  may 
come  to  adore ; 


74  PBOBSUS    RETBORSUS. 

Free  of  the  presence  of  men  was  the  neat  little 

house  of  the  Goddess, 

Who,   still   loving  the  laugh,   smiles   on   be 
holders  of  faith. 
There  she  stood  in  her  glory,  revealing  her  shape 

to  a  mortal, 
Though  she  played  with  her  hand  over  around 

and  adown, 
Seeming  to  try  to  conceal  from  mine   eye  her 

fairest  perfections, 
Which  in  their  form  most  allure  when  to  be 

hid  they  appear. 
Ha  I  the  first  woman  thou  art  and  also  the  last, 

in  this  marble 
Caught  by  a  cunning  Greek  hand  fast  in  thy 

beautiful  lines, 
Which  are  holding  all  nature  forever  here  fixed 

in  a  gesture, 

Hiding  unhidden  thy   charm,   speaking    un 
spoken  thy  thought. 
Lovely  Queen  of  the  Capitol,  now  I  know  thee  a 

Goddess, 

For  thou  revealest  thy  form  by  thy  conceal 
ment  divine; 
From  the  eye  and  the  heart  of  the  mortal  thou 

winnest  devotion, 
He  is  forced  to  behold  what  thou  dost  feign  to 

conceal. 

Ere  he  is  ware,  he  is  tranced  in  the  ecstasies 
deep  of  thy  worship, 


ECCE    EOMA.  75 

Thralled  by  thy  gesture  and  look,   which  by 

refusal  allure. 
For  the  assent  of  thy  soul  assumes  the  coy  form 

of  denial, 
And  thy  No  works  a  spell  deeper  by  far  than 

thy  Yes. 
Therein  must  I  adore  thee  as  the  divine  one  of 

women, 
Whose  first  art  is  to  hide  what  she  most    helps 

to  be  seen. 
But  not  too  far  must  thou  push  thy   ambiguous 

play,  sportive  Goddess, 
Else  thy  shrine  will  be  left  by  the  proud  man 

in  despair. 
Herein  divinity   lies :    to   keep   in   the   distance 

fruition, 
But  not  hope  to  destroy  in  the  sweet  prelude 

of  love. 
Let  me  be  tossed  by  thy  hand  like  a  ball  between 

hope  and  fulfillment ; 
Always  the  first  let  me  have  as  the  choice  food 

of  the  soul, 
But  the  second  —  play  it  before  me  —  a  vision 

Olympian 
Which  my  touch  will  not  bide,  though  I  must 

ever  pursue.  — 
Thus  I  spoke  to  the  Goddess,  and  yet  I  spoke  to 

the  maiden, 

Somehow  the  twain  were  blent  into  one  shape 
to  mine  eye ; 


76  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Such  are  the  tricks  thou  playest,  O  Rome,  beguil 
ing  the  stranger ; 
Each  seems  the  copy  of  each,  both  are  the 

woman  I  know. 
I  cannot  tell  it  —  which  is  the  marble  and  which 

is  the  maiden? 

Breathing  the  statue  now  moves,  gives  a  sweet 
look,  then  a  kiss. 


II.  Nature  and  Art  at  Rome. 

Often  I  know  not  what  I  should  think  of  this 

nudity  Roman, 
Which  in  each  street  and  each  house  meets  me 

and  speaks  with  a  charm  ; 
That  old  world  must  have  been  more  natural 

even  than  Nature, 
What  a  delight  in  the  form !  —  is  it  my  right 

or  a  sin? 
These  fair  shapes  of  cold  marble  are  altogether 

too  life-like, 
Do  they  cleanse  us  of  dross,  or  do  they  rob  us 

of  shame? 
Classical    is    the    sweet    dance    of   the    senses 

sporting  in  sunshine, 
But  the  Teutonic  fiend  creeps  on  the  joy  of  the 

South. 

Somehow  to-day  bright  Rome  is  darkened  with 
grim  Northern  devils, 


ECCE    EOMA.  77 

Which  I  have  brought  from  my  home  over  the 

ways  of  the  sea ; 
The  Antique  I  must  leave  for  a  time,  its  truth  is 

too  naked, 
Under  the  ban  of  the   law,   ages   on  ages  it 

lies. 
So  to-day  I  shall  follow  the  law,  the  stern  law, 

though  it  slay  me, 
Just  for  one  day  I  abjure  wholly  the  beautiful 

world. 
Off  I  run  from  the  city  that  I  get  free  in  the 

country, 

Breathe  of  the  sinless  hills,  drink  of  the  inno 
cent  brooks, 
As  they  leap  down  the  slopes  not  far  from  Castle 

Gandolfo, 
By   the   Alban  Mount  rocking  the  cradle  of 

Rome. 
See,  I  have  to  turn  back  to  that  fountain  —  gone 

is  resistance  — 
To  the  fountain  of  rills  where  are  the  washers 

at  work ; 

Just  a  moment  ago  I  passed  them  with  fierce  res 
olution, 
Now  so  soon  I  return,  drawn  by  the  spell  of  the 

sight. 
What  is  the  witchery  in  yon  maidenly  shape  that 

allures  me? 

I  am  afraid  that  I  like  more  than  I  ought  what 
I  see. 


78  PBOBSUS    BETBOBSUS. 

Bare  to  the  knee  for  her  labor,  she  stands  in  the 

flow  of  the  water ; 
Why  not  a  nymph  of  the  stream  seen  by  some 

fabulist  old  ? 
Strong  is  the  sweep  of  her  figure  like  an  athlete 

in  wrestling, 
Golden  her  hair  falls  down  in  a  lone  braid  to 

the  waist, 
Many    the  seams  of  rich   metal   appearing   to 

thread  through  her  tresses, 
Shifting  their  glistening  hues  under  the  sun 
shine  and  shade. 
When  she  bends  up  and  down,  the  rise  and  the 

fall  of  her  body 
Dances  me  over  its  waves  as  I  were  tossed  on 

the  sea, 
And  the  soft  tint  that   blushes   her   face   and 

blanches  her  forehead, 
Comes  from  a  wind-winged  hand  held  from  the 

tops  of  the  hills. 
Nor  could  the  eye-sight  easily  turn  from  the  hem 

of  her  kirtle 
Which   was  trying  to   hide,  modestly  naked, 

the  limbs ; 
Then  the  vision  would  wander  along  her  arm's 

gentle  taper, 
Till  it  would  drop   on    her   breast,    sucking 

deep  joy  like  a  babe. 

Through    mine   eyes    I   was   juggled  once  into 
sweet  dreams  of  palpation, 


ECCE    ROMA.  79 

And  my  looks  by  her  form  were  into  finger 
tips  turned. 
Not  in  vain,   O  Rome,  have  I  fled   from  thy 

galleries  lofty, 
Here  is  the  gallery  true  holding  fair  life  in  its 

bloom ; 
Nature  herself  is  my  guide  now  eager  to  show 

me  her  sculpture 
In  the   first  workshop  of  Time,  hinting   the 

sources  of  Art. 
But  I  had  often  to  laugh  at  the  passionate  gush 

of  the  fountain, 
As  it  bubbled  and  seethed,  full  of  the  stormiest 

love. 
Round  her  ankles  it  raved,  oft  trying  to  struggle 

up  further, 
Till  the  knee  it  would  kiss  in   a  mad  fit  of 

desire, 
Then   it   would   fall   back   into  the  current,  by 

effort  exhausted, 
Glad  to  sink  into  nought,  for  such  a  moment 

of  bliss. 
Hark  within  me  !  a  judgment  I  hear  against  the 

wild  fountain ! 
Shall  it  follow  its  law  which  is  but  Nature's 

decree? 
Shall  I  follow  my  law,  which,  pitiless,  makes  me 

its  victim? 

Or  shall  I  joyfully  flow  down  with  the  stream 
to  the  plain? 


80  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Every  drop  of  that   rill,  though  brewed  on  the 

tops  of  the  mountains, 

In  a  frenzy  appears,  it  has  refused  to  run  on, 
But  it  whirls  in  currents  and  eddies  around  the 

white  members, 
Seeking  to  swoon  to  a  kiss  where  it  might  fall 

on  her  form. 
Some  in  their  vehemence  even  leap  up  in  the 

air  to  behold  her, 
As   if  each  little  globe  were  a  lone  passionate 

soul. 
Look !  the  whole  brooklet  is  now  one  boisterous 

flutter  of  impulse, 
Goes  where   it  ought  not  to  go,  does  what  it 

ought  not  to  do. 

Yet  how  clear  and  happy  it  leaps  from  its  mount 
ainous  sources  1 
Nature  has   poured   its  heart   full  of  a  thrill 

and  a  bliss, 

And  whenever  it  sees  with  its  myriads  of  crys 
talline  eyelets 
Beautiful  things  for   the  sense,   it   with  new 

ecstasy  springs. 
Hark  again  to  the  law !     "  Here  stay  no  longer 

with  nature; 
Not  bare  life  must  thou  see,  but  the  fine  spirit 

of  life ; 

Gross  are  the  senses  if  not  transfigured  to  vision 
beyond  them, 


ECGE    ROMA.  81 

Not  for  the  form  must  thou  love,  but  for  the 

God  in  the  form." 
Such  was  the  deity's  voice,  proclaiming  the  law 

of  Olympus; 
Now  I  am  ready  to  go,   leaving  the  washers 

behind ; 
Rome,  to   thee  I  return,  thou  hast  found  the 

secret  of  Nature, 
I  in  thy  marbles  must  find  what  is  the  secret 

of  Rome. 


12.  On  the  Tiber. 

Look !  the   God   of  the   River  is  swimming  in 

rage  down  the  valley  ! 
Come,  let  us  mount  him  and  ride,  testing  his 

mettle  divine. 
How  he  maddens  and  whirls   back  his  yellowish 

locks  in  the  passage  ! 
Thrice  he  bends  his  huge  form,  struggling  to 

crawl  through  the  town. 
In  the  effort  he  hisses   and  squirms  and  twists 

like  the  Hydra 
Till  he  has  wound  past  the  walls,  gliding  away 

to  the  sea. 
What  is  greatest  in  action,  what  in  thought  is 

most  regal; 

What  is  most  beautiful  too,  in  his  three  folds 
he  has  caught ; 


82  PBORSUS    BETBOBSUS. 

Under  the  bridges  he  rolls  and  sweeps  by  the 

palaces  lofty, 
While  he  holds  in  his  coils  worlds  that  are 

old,  that  are  new. 
Tell  me,   O  Kiver,  what  is   the  source  of  thy 

power  so  lasting? 
Why  has  the  Earth  such  a  charm  just  at  this 

spot  on  her  face? 
Enter  the  pinnace,  O  Dearest,  let  us  surrender 

our  bodies 
To  the  Tiber's  embrace,  though  he  look  sullen 

and  dark. 
True  it  is  that  his  forehead  is  moody  with  striving 

and  turmoil 
From  his  grim  struggle  with  earth  that  would 

confine  his  free  stream ; 
And  his  breast  is  turbid  and  swollen  with  throes 

of  his  passion, 

As  he  hurries  along  in  a  low  mutter  of  wrath. 
But  when  he  meets  at  the  end  the  translucent 

Sea,  his  happy  beloved, 
Lying  in  boundless  repose  under  the  eye  of 

the  Sun, 
With  her  he  mingles  his  waters,  placid  they  rest 

in  her  bosom, 
To  her  crystal  transformed  by  the  embrace  of 

her  love ; 

For  her  purity  washes  his  face  of  the  slime  of 
the  conflict, 


EQCE    EOMA.  83 

All  his  violent  threats  turn  to  the  tenderest 

notes, 
And  the  Tiber  is  cleansed,  though  muddy  and 

fretful  his  humor, 
To  sereneness  and  peace  slowly  transmuting 

his  stream. 
Enter  the   pinnace   with    faith,  and   let   us  be 

rocked  on  his  wavelets 

Into  that  quiet  sea  where  we  behold  his  repose  ; 
I    descry    in   the    distance   along  the   Western 

horizon 
Waters  that  sparkle  in  dreams  under  the  glance 

of  the  Sun.  — 
Into  the  boat  she  has  stepped  with  the  fearless 

tread  of  a  sailor, 
Firmly  she  grasps  the  rude  oar  that  overfills 

her  white  hand, 
Laughingly   leaps   in   the   current  the  boat — I 

rejoice  at  the  omen, 
Woman  must  labor   with  man  on  the  rough 

river  of  life. 
Nay,  her  lot  is  the  harder  both  in  the  toil  and 

the  danger, 
She  performs  the  great  work,  he  has  to  idly 

look  on, 
She  must  surrender   her  body  in  trust  for  the 

being  of  others, 

Often  her  life  she  impawns  for  the  new  life  of 
her  love. 


84  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

So  I  look  at  the  maiden  plying  her  oar  in  the 

waters, 
Whilst  with  my   paddle  I  aid,   guiding  the 

flight  of  the  boat ; 
Soon  the  red  pencil  of  gentle  exertion  has  tinted 

her  features 
Toning  nature's  soft  flush  into   the   delicate 

white, 

As  amid  the  pallid  and  fugitive  light  of  Aurora 
Flashes  the  first-born  ray  fresh  from  the  red- 
golden  Sun. 
What  is  this  mood  that  I  hear  attuned  to  the 

flow  of  the  Tiber? 
Is  it  the  chant  from  yon  church,  or  an  old 

hymn  of  the  God  ? 

Hark !  her  arms  are  thrilling  the  air  into    mu 
sical  measures, 
While  her  hand  in  response  whirls   in  broad 

circles  the  oar ; 
Forward  she  moves  to  the  tune  of  the  stroke  on 

the  billowy  waters, 
Backward    her   body   returns,   ruled    by   the 

rhythmical  wave ; 
Every  bend  of  her  form  is  a  note  of  melodious 

movement, 
Struck  from  its  home  in  the  air,  where  it  is 

hidden  to  all, 

Save  when  her  grace  reveals  the   abode  of  the 
dulcet  vibration, 


ECCE    ROMA.  85 

By  a  mere  sweep  of  the  hand,  or  by  a   cast  of 

the  head. 
What  can  it  be  that  pours  in  my  soul  the  full 

goblet  of  pleasure? 
Something  my  spirit  inspires  more  than  her 

look  in  its  glow; 
All  my  senses  are  bathed  in  delicious  dew  of  the 

fancy ; 

Something  commands  these  lines  with  a  tyran 
nical  nod. 
Now  in  the  shape  of  the  woman  I  read  the  first 

poem  of  Nature, 
As  she   in  Paradise  rose  mothering  all  of  the 

world, 
In   herself    I  can  see  her,  methinks,  as   Adam 

first  saw  her 
Just  as  she  moved  in  his  glance,  new  from  the 

hand  of  the  Lord. 
How  I  float  on  the  rise  and  the  fall  of  a  river  of 

motions, 
To  which  the  Tiber  keeps  time,  hoary  old  God 

of  the  stream  ! 
He  too  is  charmed,  and  raises  his  head  from  the 

bed  of  his  waters, 
Shaking  his  chaplet  of  reeds,  jealous  of  mortals 

he  seems. 
But  there  is  a  whole  Tiber  within  me,  on  it  I  am 

tossing, 

How   I  surge  up  and  down  driven  by  tempest 
and  flood ! 


86  PSOSSUS    BETEOESUS. 

Has  little  Amor  grappled  the  powerful  God  of 

the  River, 
There !  see  his  eye  !  down  he  dives  —  under  the 

surface  he  swims. 
Kind  Father  Tiber,  from  the  worry  and  whirl  of 

thy  devious  current 
Bear  in  safety  our  boat   fleeing  o'er  shallows 

and  slime; 
Then  at  last  to  the   haven   of    Mediterranean 

quiet, 

Rocking  thy  cradle  of  waves,  float  us  along  on 
thy  stream. 


13.  The  Old  Titan  at  Rome. 

Fleet  run  the  days  as  I  trip  light-hearted  from 

temple  to  temple, 
Though  but  a  fragment  the  fane,  still  it  hath  in 

it  a  God; 
Let  it  be  but  the  drum  of  a  column,  a  piece  of 

a  cornice, 

In  it  the  nectar  is  caught  dropped  from  Olym 
pian  feasts. 
Here  is  a  door  in  this  dark  dingy  ruin,  come, 

let  us  enter, 
For  the  deity  haunts   all  the  old  places  he 

loved. 

He  will  strike  us  a  light  if  we  look  with  the  eyes 
of  the  faithful ; 


ECCE    ROMA.  87 

Ha,  a  wineshop    it  is,   here  is  a  God  that  I 

know. 
Speedily    he    will  illumine  our  darkness   with 

gleams  of  his  sunshine, 
Let  us  trust  him  at  once  that  we  may  find  out 

his  will. 
Alessandro,  some  wine !  the  best  from  the  hills  of 

Albano ! 
Where  on  the  sides  of  the  mount  "vineyards  are 

hung  from  the  heights, 
And  their  beautiful  tapestry,  woven  of  leaves 

and  of  sunbeams 
In  its  quick  changes  of  hue  pictures  the  time 

of  the  year. 
Speed,  Alessandro,  fetch  while  I  tell  of  the  wine 

of  Albano, 
Be  the  cup  bearer  thou,  be  we  the  Gods  at  the 

feast. — 
There  the  earth  is  a  cinder  that  glowed  with  an 

ardor  volcanic, 
In  the  mountain  close  by,  ages  unnumbered 

ago. 
Now  the  blaze  is  extinct,  no  longer  is  heard  the 

contention, 
Stygian  tasks  are  performed,  days  of  repose 

we  behold. 
But  the  grape  still  draws  up  the  glow  that  once 

gleamed  in  the  ashes, 

Sucks  from  the  soil  to  itself  slumbering  sparks 
for  the  wine. 


88  PHORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

So  the  fierce  dust  of  the  Titan  who  raged_long 

ago  in  the  mountain 
Still  his  spirit  contains,  still  his  wild   fury 

imparts. 

Then  he  was  lord  of  yon  summits,  thence  over 
ran  the  Campagna, 
Sweeping  adown  in  his  might  from  his  high 

fastness  of  rock. 
Also  a  cup  he  possessed,  and  still  we  call  it  a 

crater, 
Goblet  foaming  with  flames,  flowing  down  over 

its  sides 
Into  the  valley  below  till  reaching  the  current  of 

Tiber 
The  red  liquid  is  cooled  mingled  with  watery 

draughts. 
But  now  behold !    in  place    of  the  crater    of 

Titanic  monsters 
Is  the  wine  bowl  of  man  sending  up  gently  its 

sparks. 

Thirsty  mortals  we  are  —  to  our  lips  it  offers  re 
freshment, 
While  it  wakes  in  our  souls   Gods  that  have 

slept  from  our  birth. 
Look  !  the  old  Titans  still  work,  have  a  means  of 

transmitting  their  power, 
And  for  the  men  of  to-day  active  they  are  as 

of  yore. 

Though  they  are  dead  in  the  hills  and  their  bones 
through  the  valleys  are  scattered , 


ECCE    SOMA.  89 

Still  from  their  ashes  they  leap,  live  a  new  life 

in  the  cup. 
'Tis  the  grape  which  begets    them     anew,  yet 

softens  their  nature, 

And  has  distilled  their  dark  force  into  a  thou 
sand  clear  drops. 
Drink  of  him,  comrade,  till  the  red  flashes  along 

thy  white  forehead 

I    may  behold  —  lightnings   faint,    dimly  re 
vealing  the  form 
Of  the  huge  Titan,  as  he  once  glared  from  the 

top  of  Albano ; 
Now  he  can  send  but  a  ray  which  doth  illumine 

the  face. 
Yet  how  he  labors  to  loosen  himself  from  the 

grip  of  thy  reason, 
And  to  drive  about  wild  in  a  mad  frolic  of 

yore ! 
Drink  of  him  daringly  —  soon  within  thee  the 

Titan  will  thunder, 
Two  little  craters  I  see  darting  their  flames 

from  thine  eyes. 
One  more  drop,  Alessandro ;  we  have  discovered 

the  temple 

And  before  we  are  done,  we  shall  discover  the 
God. 

14.  Those  Tell-tales,  the  Muses. 

Fain  would  I  hide  in  myself  these  joys  of  Roman 
existence, 


90  PKOBSUS    BETSORSUS. 

But  they  sing  of  themselves  into  a  verse  ere 

they  stop; 
Somehow  they  rise  in  a  rapture  and  run  at  their 

birth  into  measure, 
Leaped  they  not  with  their  feet,  never  would 

they  be  at  all. 

So  to  the  world  my  secrets  are  told  by  the  garru 
lous  Muses, 
Who  delight  to  repeat  what  tender  souls  may 

confide, 
And  to  robe  soft  whispers  of  love  in  the  hues  of 

the  rainbow, 
Singing  with  passion  aloud  what  is  most  hid 

in  the  heart. 
Those  vibrations  of  fiery  joy  that  thrill  through 

the  body 
They  endow  with  a  voice  tuned  to  the  music 

within  ; 
And  my  timorous  fancies  boldly  they  sing  to  the 

idle, 
Who  are  quick  to  repeat  all  that  the  gossips 

may  teach ; 
Even  they  lead  before  me  my  brain's  illegitimate 

children, 
Whom  I  have  to  disown  when  I  am  faced  by 

the  law, 
Though  the   Muses   malicious  take  pleasure  in 

making  them  pretty, 

Dressed  in  imagery's  pomp,  graceful  in  move 
ment  and  song. 


ECCE    EOMA.  91 

But,  oh  ye  tattlers,  why  did  ye  point  out   the 

brood  to  the  maiden? 
She  is  jealous,  ye  know,  e'en  of  my  thought 

yet  unborn. 
To  what  extremities  by  your  wild  frolic  have  I 

been  driven  ! 
From  your  wanton  excess  danger  ahead  I  can 

see. 
Once  I  controlled  the  tireless  steeds  of  speech  in 

their  chariot, 
Now  by  the  Sisters  the  reins  rashly  are  jerked 

from  my  grasp. 
Silence,  O  sable  mysterious  Goddess  of  Night,  I 

invoke  thee ; 
Thy    divinity  now  is    the   first    word  of   my 

creed ; 
Bring  back  the  time  I  installed  thee  as  faithful 

guard  of  my  treasures  ; 
But  thy  seal  has  been  broken,  trampled  thy 

jewels  to  dust. 
Silence  is  gold,  I  have  heard  —  'tis  more,  'tis  the 

deep  mine  of  diamonds 
Which  illumines  itself,  needing  no  lamp  of  the 

Sun. 

To  the  man  secretiveness  is  the  flower  of  wisdom, 
To  the  woman  allowed  is  the  light  play  of  the 

tongue. 

Thus  my  dissatisfied  self  I  was  propping  with 
new  resolutions 


92  PROftSUS    BETRORSUS. 

When  the  sound  of  a  voice  ran  into  verses  at 

once: 
"  But  the  Muses  are  women  —  from  them  to  lock 

up  thy  secrets  ? 
To   so   many  sweet  lips  wilt  thou  forbid  the 

sweet  word? 
Ah,  nine  men  would  perish  weighed  down  by  thy 

cruel  injunction ; 
But  nine  women  —  O  fool,  what  has  become 

of  thy  wits  ? 
This   Italian  sun,  while   heating  thy  heart  into 

passion, 

Also  has  baked  thy  brain  into  a  handful  of  dust. 
Mark  !  thou  wilt  never  again  be  free  of  those  tell 
tales,  the  Muses, 
Hear !  they  are   telling  just  now  secrets  shut 

close  in  thy  heart ; 
Often  already  of  thee  they  have  told  what  should 

have  been  hidden, 

They  are  not  going  to  stop  singing  the  music 
of  Rome." 

15.  A  Little  Roman  Olympus. 

Speak  to  me  not,  for  my  fancy  is  caught  in  a 

vision  delightful, 
And  with  a  joy  in  the  soul,  who  can  abide  the 

dull  word? 
Still  I  shall  feel  it  and  say  it  and  shape  it  to 

musical  measures, 


ECCE    ROMA.  93 

I  must  utter  myself,  e'en  if  I  talk  all  alone. 
Every  house  is  a  palace  at  Rome,  it  may  be  a 

temple, 
Which  some   God  doth  indwell,  Goddess  you 

always  will  find. 
Nay,  each  room  of  the  house  has  often  a  godlike 

possession, 

Visibly  deity  comes  giving  his  gift  unto  all. 
What  is  now  the  delight?     The  Divine  I  have 

seen  in  a  bath-room, 
Rather  a  shrine  be  it  called  which  to  devotion 

invites. 
Many   divinities   drop   down    silently   into   that 

chamber, 
Small  is  the  size  of  the  fane,  yet  it  of  beauty 

is  full. 
How  I.  happened  to  come  to  the  place  demands 

explanation, 

Here  is  the  story  of  chance  favoring  worship 
ers  true. 
Long  I  had  trodden  the  streets  from  the  tops  of 

the  hills  to  the  Tiber, 
Viewing  the   fountains   of  Rome,  looking  at 

Tritons  and  Nymphs  — 
Forms  of  the  water  which  leap  into  life  up  out  of 

the  water 
Blowing   a   stream  through  a  shell,  cowering 

under  the  waves. 

Of  a  sudden  I  came  to  a  house  which  I  knew  by 
its  door-step, 


94  PBOBSUS    RETRORSUS. 

For   I  had   been  there   before ;   quickly   the 

knocker  I  seized, 
Soon  the  door  flew  ajar,  and  a  voice  I  heard  at 

the  threshold: 
"You  are  weary,  I  see;  go,   be  renewed  by 

the  bath." 
What  could  I  do  but  obey  the  command  I  already 

had  wished  for? 

In   a  spiral  the  stair  led  me  up  into  the  room ; 
There  at  the  view  the  spirit  took  strength  even 

more  than  the  body, 

For  another  small  world  I  in  deep  wonder  be 
held. 
Clear  with  a  joy  lay  the  fount    in   its    bed  of 

smooth  alabaster, 
Crystal  both  of  them  were,  held  in  each  other's 

embrace. 
Nor  could  you  say  first  which  was  the  water  and 

which  was  the  crystal, 

Things  so  unlike  in  our  world   may  be  trans 
parently  one. 
On  the  ceiling  above  was  circling  a  garland  of 

Amors, 
Looking  down  at  the  fount  which  their  sweet 

images  held ; 
All  the  delights  of  sunny  Olympus  arose  from 

their  gestures, 

As  they  flew  with  their  feet,  as  too  they  danced 
with  their  wings ; 


ECCE    ROMA,  95 

And  their  infantile  bodies  sang  with  a  musical 

cadence, 
Out  of  their  motions  of    grace  wreathing  a 

roundel  of  love. 
Next  on  the  wall,  coy  nymphs  stood  out  in  relief 

from  the  surface, 
All  prepared  to  descend  into  the  pool  at  their 

feet; 
Some,  half  unrobed,  were  playing  amid  the  trees 

of  the  forest, 
Others,   bared  to  the  zone,  wound  in  a  knot 

their  long  hair. 
One,  the  fairest,  had  entered  the  limpid  laugh 

of  the  water, 
Under  the  crystal  you  see  lovely  proportion  of 

form. 
But  on  a  pedestal  yonder,  above  the  glass  of  the 

fountain, 
Turning  her  glances  aside  into  the  mirroring 

depths 
Crouches  Cythera.     Happiest  here  she  looks  in 

her  temple ; 
Idly  her  garments  are  thrown  over  the  vase  at 

her  side ; 
Outlines  of  light  are  flashed   from  her  body  as 

fine  as  the  sunbeams, 
Through  a  universe  fair  wholly  made  up  of 

herself. 

As  she  beholds  her  true  image  returned  from  the 
water's  reflection, 


96  PBORSUS    EETEOESUS. 

She  has  that  which  she  is  subtly  revealed  to 

herself. 
Yet  with  a  smile  of  content  at  the  view,  she  is 

playfully  seeking, 

From  her  own  eyes  to   conceal  guiltless   en 
chantments  of  form  ; 
She  would  appear  to  be  modest,  aye,  methinks 

to  be  bashful, 

Willing  again  to  unknow  what  she  has  will 
ingly  known. 
Is   it  knowledge's  modesty,  or  is   it  modesty's 

knowledge  ? 
Were  not  Nature  so  near,  I  would  maintain  it 

were  Art. 
Whom  dost  thou  see,  O   Goddess,   what   face 

peeps  out  of  the  water? 
Lies  beneath   it  some  God,  thence  to   behold 

thee  in  stealth? 
Art  thou  playing,  playing  alone  with  thy  sweet 

secret  fancies? 
And  alluring  art  thou  to  thine  own   beautiful 

shape? 

Look  I  there  is  in  the  fountain  one  who  is  fur 
tively  gazing, 
But  the  intruder  art  thou,  caught  in  that  mirror 

and  held ; 
Now  thine  image  is  slowly  transmuted  to  Mars,  to 

thy  lover, 

And  from  his   mirrored  glance  thou  art   pre 
tending  to  hide. 


ECCE    ROMA.  97 

Bather  divine,   forever  sporting   in  joy  with  thy 

fancy, 
Which,  unknown  to  thyself,  pictures  another's 

fond  face 

There  in  the  fountain  floating   mid  dreams  en 
raptured  of  beauty, 
Feign  from  his  glance  to  conceal  what  thou 

wouldst  have  him  to  see, 
Softly  transmute  the  coarse  senses  to  the  fine 

spirit  of  vision 
Which   doth  the  Goddess  behold   in  the   fair 

forms  of  the  world. 
Everything  in  thy  walls  is  divine,  O  Rome   the 

eternal, 
Thou  art  the  sum  of  thy  works,  yet  thou  art 

also  thyself; 
But   of   all  of  thy  works  so   divine,  thyself  art 

divinest, 

Thou  art  all  of  thy  deeds,  yet  thou  art  some 
thing  far  more. 
Each  little  mark  on  thy  face  is  a  line  of  Olympian 

grandeur, 
And  in  thy   presence   to-day  each   little   man 

waxes  great ; 
Thine  is  the  power   to  stretch  out  the  soul,  the 

small  soul  of  the  mortal, 
Till  it  the  universe  fills,  though  thou  art  ruins 
and  dust. 


98  PRORSU8    RETRORSUS. 

Even  to  bathe  is  a  worship  at  Rome,  a  festival 

splendid, 

At  which  are  present   the   Gods,  nor  do  the 
Goddesses  fail. 


16.  Anticipation. 

Which  is  the  sweeter,  the  love  of  thy  art,  or  the 

art  of  thy  loving, 
I  cannot  tell  O  Rome,  both  of  them  are  but 

one  joy, 
And   they   spring  from  the  same  deep  sources 

within  the  man's  bosom  ; 
Let  him  look  into  himself,  there  he  the  fount 
ain  will  spy. 
Often  I  follow  the  one,  but  come  in  my  search  to 

the  other, 
When  the  marble  I  seek,  lo,  it  is  life  I  have 

found. 
Love  of  thy  art  blends  into  the  art  of  thy  love 

in  my  journey  — 
All  without  my  design,  I  cannot  help  what  I 

am. 
Often  I  query :    Now  which  is  the  Goddess  and 

which  is  the  mortal, 
Both  to  Olympus  belong,  both  too,  belong  to 

the  earth. 

But  in  these  verses,  I  know,  is  hidden  a  tempest 
of  trouble, 


ECCE    ROMA.  99 

Which  is  sure  to  break  loose  when  I  recross 

the  great  wave ; 
When   out  of   reach   of  classical   eyes  beneath 

native  beeches 
By  some  shepherdess  fair  I  am  enthralled  once 

again. 

If  I  offer  to  pipe  in  her  ear  a  pastoral  ditty, 
She  will    quickly   demand:     **  Where  is   thy 

maiden  of  Rome? 
WThose  proud  name  thou  hast  woven  in  many  a 

garland  of  flowers, 
Where  I  have   read  it  oft  mid  their  delicious 

perfume? 
Well  do  I  know  she  wore  thy  bright  circlet  of 

bloom  and  of  blossom 
In  the  pride  of  a  queen  crowned  with  her  jewels 

and  gold. 
But  no  longer  renewed  by  thy  hand,  the  garland 

has  withered, 
Under  its  wilted  leaves  it  has  become  full  of 

spines. 
All  the  sweet  hours  of  beauty  and  love  it  has 

turned  into  torture, 
On  the  pitiless  thorns  blood  may  be  seen  from 

her  brow. 
For  thy  poetical  nosegay  thou  pluckest  the  heart 

of  a  maiden, 

Then  thou  leavest  to  wilt  both  the  fond  heart 
and  the  flowers." 


100  PBOBSUS    BETBOBSUS 

With    excuses    and    circumlocutions    and    fiery 

denials 
Singeing  the  garment  of  truth,  scarce  can  I 

make  a  defense: 
"Pooh?  that  girl!  she  was  only  an  allegorical 

maiden 
Whom  I  found  in  Rome,  using  her  just  for  my 

verse." 
"Talk  tome  not — you  poets  are  fond  of  our 

heart's  vivisection,' 
Bleeding  the  warm  pulse  of  love  that  you  may 

color  your  lines." 
To  explain  the  old  to  the  new  is  no  easy  matter, 

Many  a  fable  I  try  tinted  with  imagery  fair. 
Prevarication   is   a  rough   road  that   always  is 

jolting 
Into  a  stammer  the  tongue  when  it  may  travel 

that  way. 
So    I   shall     writhe   under    glances     showering 

sparkles  of  anger, 
Fickleness  is   the   reproach,   if    not  a  worse 

charge  be  made. 
What   a    horrible   gallows   is   built   of   poetical 

measures, 
If  the  poet  must  give  rigid   account    of   his 

lines ! 

Say,  shall  prosaic  propriety  throttle  divine   in 
spiration, 

Or  shall  Pegasus  still  have  the  free  range  of 
the  clouds? 


ECCE    ROMA.  101 

But  be  silent,  O  Muse,  let  us  take  the  warning 

in  season, 
Gently  rein  in  our  steed,  lest  we  be  cast  from 

his  back ; 
Pegasus  always  mounts  too  near  the    planet  of 

Venus, 

With   the    loose    Goddess   to   stray   even    in 
heavenly  fields. 


17.  Art  and  Life. 

Chilly  and  stark  to  the  touch  is  the  crystalline 

form  of  the  Goddess, 
She  could  make  no  response,  if  you  would  give 

her  a  kiss ; 
Therefore  it  is  that  I  have  to  go  back  into  life 

and  the  living, 
Then  I  can  see  with  the  touch,  then  I  can  touch 

with  the  eye. 
Thus  I  learn  of  the  spirit  that  runs  into  lines  of 

the  marble; 
Rising  from  sight  to  the  soul,  feel  I  an  infinite 

sense. 
Rome,  to-day  thou  art  old,  I  too  have  grown  old 

in  thy  ruins, 
To  the  fountain  of  youth  I  must  return  for  a 

drink; 

I   am   exhausted,  I  can    no  longer  draw  breath 
from  these  statues 


102  PBOBtiUS    RETRORSUS. 

Till  again  I  behold  all  of  their  outlines  alive.  — 

o 

"Thou  art  getting  gray   hairs,  I  can  see  one 

streaking  thy  temples," 
So   I  was  teased  by  the   maid,    merry    with 

youth's  sparkling  wine. 
"That  I  deny,"  was  my  answer  of  warmth  to 

the  fell  accusation, 
"  I  have  been  snowed  in  not  yet,  by  the  fierce 

snow-storm  of  years." 
Ere  I  could  turn  she  had  plucked  out  the  fiber  of 

envious  silver, 
Held  it  up  to  mine  eye  laughing  in  triumph  the 

while, 

With  the  clutch  of  despair  I  grasped  at  the  hor 
rible  trophy, 
Still  it  dangled  above  reach  as  I  might  for  her 

hand. 
"That  was  a  coward,"  I  cried,  "  from  the  one 

do  not  judge  the  whole  army; 
He  alone  has  grown  pale  hearing  the  tramp  of 

the  years 

In  the  distance,  as  they  advance  with  slow-step 
ping  phalanx, 
On  the  fortress  of  youth  hurling  the  frost  of 

old  Time." 
While  I  was  speaking,  with   dexterous  hand  she 

t  caught  out  another 

Then  another  till  three  there  she  had  conjured 
to  view, 


ECCE    ROMA.  103 

Three  pale  ghosts  from  the  grave  they  suddenly 

rise  on  my  vision, 
And  a  message  they  bring  blasting  with  terror 

the  soul ; 
For  they  are  heralds,  and  they  announce   with 

the  sound  of  the  trumpet, 
That  the  dread  tyrant,  Old  Age,  comes  and 

will  soon  be  in  sight. 
Rigid  as  stone  I  gaze  at  the  specters  more  dire 

than  Medusa, 
Now  my  head  will  be  bleached  white  as  the 

snow  by  the  fear 
And  to-morrow  I,  an  old  man,  shall  rise  with  the 

Sungod, 
Totter  along  down  the  street  robbed  of  the 

half  of  my  life. 
But  O  hear  her,  the  brave  and  the  youthful,  chase 

off  the  monsters 
That  are  gnashing  their  teeth  over  my  head  in 

the  air, 
For  she  speaks  sweet  words  which  are  winged 

with  arrows  of  Amor : 
"  Give  me  to  bathe  my  hot  hand  in  the  fresh 

rime  of  these  locks  ! 
I  would  like  forever  to  sport  in  the  flakes  of  the 

snow-fall, 
And  my  lips  I  would  cool  on  the  fresh  brow 

of  the  frost." 

Up,  let  us  go;  I  now  understand  the  spirit  of 
marble, 


104  PBOBSUS    EETEOESUS. 

Now  I  can  see  fair  life  move  into  lines  of  the 

stone, 

And  from  the  Goddess*  lips  I  can  hear  the  un 
speakable  secret, 

As  in  my  heart  I  behold  how  she  becometh 
divine. 


18.  Experience. 

As  I  wander  about  in  a  joy  from  ruin  to  ruin, 
And  from  this  church  to  that,  where  I  may 

find  an  old  stone, 

On  the  way  I  hold  it  a  duty  to  peep  into  wine 
shops, 
Which  are  happily  ranged  just  on  the  path  to 

the  Gods. 
Oft  I  have  tested  the  soul  of  the  grape  from 

Mount  Fiascone, 
And  the  mad  Titan  I  know  lying  on  many  old 

hills. 
Yesterday,  let  me  confess,  I  took  too  much  of  the 

giant 
Who  imparts  his  sly  wrath  still  through   the 

mild  Alban  grape; 
Treacherous  is  that  draught  when  served  from 

thy  hand,  Alessandro, 
For  thy  grace  adds  a  drop  trebling  the  ardor 

divine. 

First,   a  gentle  succession    of    gleams    illumed 
my  horizon, 


ECCE    ROMA.  105 

Giving  new   suns   to  the   day,    hanging  new 

stars  in  the  sky. 
Soon  it  grew  to  a  blaze,  through  the   brain   the 

lightning  volcanic 
Flashed  like  a  tempest  unchained  mid  the  wild 

waves  of  the  sea. 
Then  I  saw  in  my  dream  the  huge  Titan  rise  up 

from  Albano, 
Belching  his  fiery  blasts  with  the  mad  eyes  of 

revenge 
'Gainst  the  clear  sunny  home  of  Jupiter  high  on 

Olympus, 
Where   calm    reason   and   joy   dwell   on   the 

heights  with  the  Gods. 
How  he   bellowed  and  roared  and  grimaced   in 

angry  defiance ! 
Dire  was  the  pain  of  the  cramp  wrenching  his 

bowels  of  stone. 
But  there  followed  the  mighty  eruptioli,  when 

the  sick  Titan 
Burst  with  retching  his  sides,  all  overflowing 

the  plain. 
After  his  labor  he  fell  into  sleep,  and  I  along 

with  him 
Slept,  till  Apollo  the  bright  laid  his  soft  palm 

on  my  face. 
Now  I  am  but  a  handful  of  ashes,  like  the  old 

Titan, 

Scattered  and  sprinkled  about  over  the  fields 
and  the  hills. 


106  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Alessandro,  no  more  of  the  giant  to-day,  I  must 

gather 
First  my  poor  trunk  and  my  limbs  which  have 

been  strewn  far  and  wide; 
Henceforth  I  want  but  a  drop  of  him,  two  drops 

or  a  wee  third  drop, 
Just  enough  for  a  flash  or  a  low  growl  of  his 

wrath. 
His   inspiration   I   wish  to   possess  without  his 

convulsion, 

Give  me  the  might  of  his  glow  yet  under  rea 
son's  restraint. 
Temperance   now   is    my   gospel,    convincingly 

preached  by  this  headache  ; 
But  to-morrow  once  more  set  me  the  pearl- 
beaded  bowl. 
Too  much  divinity  hath  to-day  overwhelmed  me, 

poor  mortal ! 

Still  the  God  I  must  know,  though  he  consume 
me  in  wrath. 


19.  Palingenesis. 

Though  these  stones  have  been   dug  from  the 

Earth  and  set  up  in  museums, 
Thou  must  excavate  still  all  of  them  just  where 
they  are, 

In  thy  life  here  digging  them  out  of  the  dust  of 
the  Ages ; 


ECCK    BOM  A.  107 

This  old  world  now  afresh  thou  must  discover 

thyself. 
Better  it  were  to  let  it  sleep  on  in  the  tomb  it 

has  chosen, 

If  it  be  not  born  with  a  new  birth  in  thy  soul ; 
Do  not  disturb  the  dead,  if  thou  canst  not  give 

resurrection  ; 
Living  and  speaking  with  thee  let  them  arise 

out  the  Past. 
Here  in  death  I  find  life  enwreathing  the  tomb 

with  its  figures, 
Over  the   coffined  dust   festivals  sport   in  the 

stone. 
In   a   circle   around  this   sarcophagus  leap  the 

wild  dancers, 

Even  the  ashes  repose  mid  a  perpetual  joy. 
Look  !  the  dead  have  a  chorus  of  marble  eternally 

moving ! 
Thou  must  divinity  see  smiting  the  world  into 

nought, 
And  so  making   it  live  and  last   in   new   shapes 

forever ! 
Learn  the  ways  of  the  Gods,  though  they  appear 

in  their  wrath, 
Though  they  strike  thee  down  to  the  dust  in  the 

stroke  of  their  presence : 

Men  can  know  the  Gods  only  by  feeling  their 
blows. 


100h 

Ex  Urbe. 


I.    Confession. 

Much  have  I  told  thee,  O  reader,  that   nears  the 

forbidden, 
Much  have  1  left   untold  sparing   thy  blushes 

and  mine. 
Was  the  old  world  more  innocent,  or  only  closer 

to  Nature? 
Having  so  much  more  of  sin,  have  we  so  much 

more  of  shame  ? 
Still   I  would   reconcile   freedom  of  yore  with 

modesty  modern, 

Veil  the  sweet  love  of  the  South  in  the  chaste 
soul  of  the  North. 

(108) 


ECCE    ROMA,  109 

Rome  a  Paradise  thou,  still  hinting  the  Paradise 

naked 
Of  old   Adam  and  Eve,  ere  the  first   fig-leaf 

•  o 

was  sewed. 

I  can  feel  already  I  am  too  sinful  to  stay  here, 
Out  of  this  Garden  so  fair  I  shall  be  driven  off 

too, 
But  not  to-day.     Arise  once  more,  ye  Gods  and 

ye  Heroes, 

Aud  ye   Goddesses  too  —  I  am  not  done  with 
you  yet. 

2.  Vision  of   Castaly. 

Tell  me  no  news  of   the  rest  of  the  world,  keep 

the  newspaper  from  me, 
Quitting  the  continent  new,  I  would  live  back  in 

the  old ; 

Caesar's  hardiest  soldier,  Ovid's  luxurious  rival, 
Horace's  friend  I  shall  be,  sharing  his  wine  and 

his  song, 
Sipping  the  sparks  of  old  Massic  and  singing  sweet 

Lalage's  laughter: 
When  I  am  in  old  Rome,  I  an  old  Roman  shall 

be. 
And  to  the  school  I  shall  go  once  more,  to  the 

poets  of  Latium, 

But  not  a  book  I  shall  read  less  than  two  thou 
sand  years  old. 

Backwards  further  and  further  I  move,  for  thus 
I  move  forwards, 


110  PROBSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Aye,   beyond  Koine  I    must   go,   she  is   not 

wholly  her  own. 
Every  road  leads  to  Rome,  but  mine,  I  can  see, 

leads  through  it, 
Till  I  come  to  the  source  sending  its  beautiful 

rills. 
Now   in   my  mind  I   look   on   the   fountain   of 

Castaly  limpid, 
Whose  clear  waters  reflect  all  the  fair  shapes 

of  the  soul, 
As   like   bubbles   they  rise   from  the  bottomless 

depths  of  the  Fancy 
Seeking  a  birth  into  Time  with  the  rich  dower 

of  form. 
I  beseech  the  bright  Nymph  to  hold  up  before 

me  her  mirror 
That  I  may  see  the  new  brood  whirled  into 

life  in  my  brain, 
That   I  may  see   them,  and   quickly   may  draw 

their  shadowy  outlines, 
Ere  to  Lethe  they  sink,  whelmed  at  their  birth 

into  gloom. 
If  but  once  they  should  fallback  into  that  stream 

of  oblivion, 
Orpheus  e'en  with  his  lyre  cannot  allure  them 

to  light. 
Now  in  my  thought  the  world  rises  up  as  when 

ruled  from  Olympus, 

And  to  the  beautiful   halls  each  happy  deity 
goes; 


ECCE    ROMA.  Ill 

All   of   the   Gods   are    marching   along   in   the 

fragrance  of  movement, 
While  the  Goddesses'  forms  echo  the  music  of 

folds. 
There  I  catch  a  sly  glimpse   of  the   harmonies 

hidden  of  Venus, 
Racking  with  rapture  the  look  as  she  descends 

to  the  bath ; 
But    to-day   with   Paris   I    was   on    the   Idsean 

mountain 
Where     three     Queens     undraped    stood    in 

divinity's  glow, 
Unto   my  mortal  vision   revealing  their  beauty 

immortal ; 
Tinged    with    blushes    divine,  from  me    the 

judgment  they  sought. 
Long    I    looked    at    the    movement  of  life   in 

Castaly's  mirror, 
Where    is     seen    what    transpires     both     on 

Olympus  and  Earth. 
Often  I  try  to  fasten  in    lines  what  1  see  in  her 

waters, 
With    a  pencil     antique    limning    Olympian 

forms ; 

Yet,  O  Castalia,  beautiful  nymph  of  the  crystal 
line  ringlets, 

Not  alone  do  I  see  images  held  in  thy  hair, 
But  thee  too  I  behold,  thy  translucence  unselfishly 


112  PRORSUS    EETEOSSUS. 

To  reflect  other  forms  while  thou  art  hidden 

thyself. 
Jealousy  never  thy  candor  distorts  or  thy  purity 

darkens, 
Though  a    rival    thou    art  to   the  Olympian 

Queens. 
Thee  I  long  to  behold  in  thyself,  in  thy  fountain 

at  Delphi, 

As  thou  risest  above,  out  of  dark  chaos  below, 
Showing  thy  beautiful  form  in  the  sheen  of  the 

God  of  the  sunshine, 

Who  from  his  temple   near  by  sings  thee  his 
wisdom  and  song. 

3.  The  New  Prometheus. 

Once  my  soul  was  a  monk,  and  my  body  was  then 

but  his  cloister, 
Daily  I  hid  in  my  cell  shunning  the  joy  of  the 

world; 
Out  of  my  thoughts  I  plaited  a  whip  of  hundreds 

of  lashes, 
Which  would  strike   of  themselves    inwardly 

turned  on  my  mind. 

My  delight  was  to  find  new  ways  of  being  tor 
mented, 
On   my  dissatisfied  self  madly  I  wielded   the 

scourge. 

But  in  Rome  I  am  free,  in  the  city  of  monks  and 
of  cloisters, 


ECCE    ROMA.  113 

Fire  has  driven    out  fire,  yet  it  has  left   rne 

afire. 
So  a  new  trouble  has  subtly  now  taken  the  place 

of  the  old  one, 
Still   the    delight,    O   the   delight  just  in  the 

twinge  of  its  pain. 
Can  it  be  that  I  have  been  playing  the  rogue  and 

have  stolen 
Under  Amor's  wild  lead  flames  that  belong  in 

the  skies? 
Let  me  confess  —  'tis  the  fire  of  Heaven,  and  it  I 

have  stolen, 
Hidden  it  deep  in  my  heart  visible  scarce  to  a 

God. 

Ah  Prometheus,  hoary  old  sinner  of  ages  Titanic  ! 
Still  thy  example  misleads,  nor  can  thy  penance 

deter. 
Led  by  the  beautiful  flash  and  the  sparkle  I  toyed 

with  the  flamelet, 
Wished   it   soon   to  be  mine,  slyly  I  took  it 

along ; 
Then  I  went  to  my  walk  in  the  grove  of  Villa 

Borghese, 
Nursing  the  spark  with  my  breath,  dreaming 

of  raptures  to  be. 
Jupiter,  mightiest  God  of  Olympus,  jealous  of 

mortals, 

Missed  the  fire  from  his  hearth,  when  his  high 
palace  grew  cold 

8 


114  PEOE8U8    RETRORSUS. 

From  its  absence  —  for  he,  though  a  God,   is 

warmed  in  its  ardor, 
Even  descends  from  the  skies  for  the  luxurious 

flame ; 
Danae,  Seraele,  witnesses  be  ye,  with  thousands 

of  others, 
Who  earthly  lightning  aroused  in  the  Great 

Thunderer's  breast. 
Casting  his  all-seeing  eye  through  the  nooks  of 

his  limitless  domains, 
Me  he  beheld  down  below  fondling  in  fancy 

the  flame, 
Wrapping  it  over  and  over  in   layers  of  images 

Roman, 
Making  it  dance  to  a  tune  drawn  from  the 

music  of  Greece, 
As  beneath  the  cool  shade  of  a  laurel,  beside  a 

clear  fountain 
I  was  lying  in  ease  shunning  the  heat  of  the 

day. 
With  the  soul  in  a  dream  there  mingled  the  sound 

of  the  waters, 
As  they  murmured  and  sang  with  the  sweet 

voices  of  nymphs 
Called  Naiads  —  who  chirp  in   the   brooks   and 

dance  in  the  fountains  — 
Water  no  longer  assails  but  it  encourages  fire. 
All  at  once  a  vulture  swept  down  through  the 
branches  umbrageous, 


ECCE    ROMA.  115 

Sent  by  Olympian  Jove,  ruler  of  men  and  of 

Gods, 
And  infixed  in  my  heart  his  beak  and  eats  of  it 

daily, 
Daily   it   groweth    again    furnishing   new    his 

repast. 
Chained  to  a  pitiless  rock  now    behold   me,    a 

second  Prometheus ! 
I   forever   am    gnawed,   never    consumed    or 

relieved. 
What  can  I  do?  —  Good  soul,  await  thou  heroic 

deliverance, 
For  thy  Hercules  comes,  mighty  endurer  of 

toils, 
Who  subdues  the  dread  birds  of  the  air  for  his 

people.     I  tell  thee, 

Jove  with  his  thunderbolt  barbed  can  not  detain 
thee  in  pain. 


4    Metempsychosis. 

Days  come  alike  with  the  Sun,  yet  different  some 

are  from  others, 
Some  to  the  future  belong,  others  go  back  to 

the  past; 
All  of  to-day  has  been  floating  about  me  an  old 

reminiscence, 

I  have  lived  in  a   world  born  long  before  my 
own  birth, 


116  PBOBSUS    BETBOBSUS 

And  I  am  at  this  moment  no  more  than  a  memory 

ancient, 
Which  is  straying  around,  lost  in  the  present 

by  fate. 

Hoary  philosophers  meet  me  and  speak,  Pytha 
goras,  Plato: 
"  Now  you  may  know  what  we  meant  when  we 

discoursed  of  the  soul." 
This  high  hour  is  not  of  to-day,    it  is  an  odd 

moment  of  Homer, 
Which  into  sunshine  was  dipped  once  when  in 

Chios  he  sang 
Thousands  of  years  ago  —  perchance  before  him 

it  was  singing  — 
Now  to  the  earth  re-born,  it  has  come  singing 

to  me. 
Through   a  long  gallery  built   of  the  ceaseless 

addition  of  ages, 
Voices  oft  drop  on  mine  ear  that  have  reached 

down  from  old  Home ; 
And  as  I  go  up  the  street  and  walk  under  arches 

triumphal, 
What   is  that  shout  on   the  air  peopled   with 

millions  unseen? 
Yon  red  obelisk  heavenward  pointing  its  finger 

of  granite 
Is  still  telling  the  tale   once  to  the   Pharaohs 

told; 

It  is  also  a  traveler,  far  from   its   home   it   has 
wandered 


ECOE    ROMA.  117 

Where  it  first  saw  the  God  kissing  the  land  of 

the  Nile; 
Centuries  long  it  stayed   in  its  city  of  light  by 

the  River, 
City  built  to  the  Sun  at   the  new  dawn  of  the 

world. 
But  the  moment  arrived  when  it  too  had  to  start 

on  its  journey, 
Rounding  the  circle  of  Earth,  seeking  to  come 

to  itself. 
Stopping  at  Rome  it  stood  up  for  ages,  then  fell 

and  was  buried, 
But  resurrected  you  see  all  of  its  body  once 

more, 
Here  by  the   Lateran  patiently  waiting  for  new 

transmigrations, 

For  again  it  must  fall,  it  must  arise  too  again. 
What   am   I   but  a   wanderer   here,  an  obelisk, 

statue ! 

Mid   these  ruins  I  stray  that  I  discover  my 
self ; 
I  must  see  what  I  was  when  a  Greek  I  was  born 

or  Egyptian, 
Pilgrim  I  come  to  my  Rome  seeking  the  shrine 

of  my  Gods. 
Soft  flow  the  hours,  O  maiden,  if  fondly  thy  lips 

are  attuned 

That  they   utter   low   notes   borne  from   thy 
bosom  of  trust ; 


118  PBOBSUS    EETEOESUS. 

For  whenever  I  hear  the  tale  of  thy  life  and  thy 

longing, 
It  is  the  sound  of  a  voice  echoing  down  ancient 

halls ; 
And  I  behold  the  hoar  shape  from  which  thy  soul 

is  descended  — 
The  proud  soldier  of  Rome  who  in  thy  words 

comes  to  life. 
So  after  thousands  of  years  the  spirit  returns  to 

the  body, 
From  its  wanderings  dark   down  in  the  realm 

of  the  shades, 
And  once   more   it   puts  on   new  vestments  of 

youth  and  of  beauty, 
Fleeing  dim  Hades'  abode,  clad  for  the  light 

of  the  sun. 
Of  its  former   dear  self  it   retains  many  dark 

recollections, 
Which   still  guide  and  forewarn,  whisper   of 

sorrow  and  joy ; 
And  the  woman  if   she  delight  in  some  ancient 

action 
That  enkindles  the  page  where  the  high  record 

she  reads, 

Till  her  heart  is  wrapped  in  the  flames  of  a  pas 
sionate  genius 
Which  with  its  power  unknown  makes  her  far 

more  than  herself — 

She  was  the  hero,  she  was  the    soul  that  gave 
birth  to  the  action 


ECCE    ROMA.  119 

In  the  bright  world  long  ago.     But  if  the  deed 

be  a  myth, 
Shaping   to  beautiful  words  the  spirit    of    long 

generations, 
Words  with  high  fantasy's  stamp,  coined  by 

the  Poet  divine, 
Who  can  charm  hoar  fabulous  shapes  from  the 

cave  of  old  Silence 
Into  the  light  of  the  Sun  —  then  too  that  myth 

was  her  work, 
Sprung  of  her  soul  into  flesh  again  dipping  its 

fiery  essence, 
Still  recollecting  the  forms  which  it  created  of 

old. 
O  my  brave  maiden,  now  tell  it,  for  thou  wert 

the  singer  heroic 
Of  the  glorious  deed,  hung  like  a  lamp  in  the 

sky 
Of  far-off  antiquity  —  lamp  that  illumes  all  the 

ages  — 
Yet  with  thy  praises  festooned,  now  a  new  glory 

it  shines. 
In  the  olden  republican  times  I  can  think  thee  a 

poet 
Framing  fierce  fables  antique  which  first  to-day 

I  have  heard 
Told  with  the  glow  enkindled  alone  of  the  primal 

conception, 

Firing  the  soul  of  the  bard    when   he   deep 
destinies  sings. 


120  PltOBSUS    RETRORSUS. 

5.    An  Old  Legend  Re-incarnated. 

Tell  me  a  story  —  a  story  that  touches  thy  heart, 

Roman  maiden, 

For  the  atmosphere  sweet,  which  is  surround 
ing  thy  thoughts, 
Filling  the  hours  with  visions  of  youth  and  ten- 

derest  passion, 
I  would  breathe  in  by  day,  then  I  would  dream 

in  by  night. 
From  thy   fancy  let  me  but  charm  thy  favorite 

legend, 
For  I  long  to  descend  into  the  fountain   of 

youth 
And  to  drink  of  its  bright  limpid  waters  just  as 

they  gurgle 
From  their  source,  thy  heart.     There  1  may 

see  deep  below 
Images  floating  transparently  chased  in  pearls  of 

mild  beauty, 
Which  reveal  to  the  eye  lands  that  are  filled 

with  thy  dreams. 
Rare  is  the  flower  of  speech,  just  tipped  with  the 

dew  of  young  honey, 
Which   distills  drop  by  drop  from  the  sweet 

lips  of  the  maid ; 
Rare  is  the  vision  unrolled  in  the  fount  to  the 

look  of  the  drinker, 

Who  would  fain  swoon  away  into  that  world  of 
bright  forms. 


ECCE    ROMA.  121 

Rose-bud   of  Rome,   here  growing  in   fondness 

over  the  ruins, 
Which  still  furnish  the  soil  whence  thy  fair 

bloom  sucks  its  life, 
Whose  dark  roots  sink  down  to  the  temples  of 

Gods  and  of  Heroes, 
And  to  the  Present  upbreathes  fragrance  that 

comes  of  the  Past  — 

Tell  me  a  story  while  yet  I  can  see  by  the  glim 
mer  of  sunlight 
Thy  swift  flashes  of  red  wreathing  thy  lilies 

with  love, 
Modesty's  sky   blushed   through   by   gleams  of 

innocent  passion, 
Heralds  announcing  thy  tale  truthful  to  nature 

yet  pure. 
"  In  the  time  of  old  Rome  there  lived  a  beautiful 

lady, 
And  in  old  Rome,  you  must  know,  every  lady 

was  fair, 
Now  they  are  few,  and  none  of  them  are  so  fair 

as  the  ancient ; 
Noble  this  lady  was  too,  bearing  a  name  that  I 

love ; 
She  was  called  Cornelia  of  Rome,  'tis  the  name 

of  my  mother, 
And  has  remained  in  our  house  long  as  a  family 

name 

For  the  women,  since   we   have   come   of  her 
blood  —  we  know  it  — 


122  PRORSUti    RETRORSUS. 

In  a  straight  line  we  can  trace  out  of  old  Rome 

our  descent. 
Well,  this  noble  Cornelia,  this  beautiful  lady  I 

speak  of, 
Also  a  dear  mother  was,  mother  of  beautiful 

boys, 
Two   of  them ;   no  such  beautiful  boys  can  be 

found  in  the  city 
Now,  for  the  city  has  changed,  people  within 

it  have  changed. 
But  how  proud  she  felt  as  the  mother  of  beautiful 

children  ! 
Roman  boys,  perchance  soon  to  be  great  men 

of  Rome. 
Think  all  the  day,  and  dream  all  the  night  of  two 

pretty  children, 
This  Cornelia  did,  proud   Roman  matron  of 

old. 
For   they  were  boys  —  and  not   for  a   moment 

could  she  stop  thinking 
What  they   were  to   become    when  they  had 

grown  to  be  men. 
Once  some   fine   Roman   ladies     came    to   visit 

Cornelia, 
Finest  dresses  they  wore,  jewels  and  gems  set 

in  gold  ; 

They  besought  her  that  day  to  put  on  her  cost 
liest  garments, 

Covered  with  rubies  and  pearls  —  stars  cannot 
twinkle  so  bright 

B 


ECCE    ROMA.  123 

On  the  clear  sky  above  —  and  then  they  begged 

and  they  coaxed  her 
With  them  to  sweep  down  the  street  showing 

her  beauty  and  wealth. 
Oh,  methinks   these   dames  of   old  Eome  were 

surely  the  mothers 
Of  our  women  to-day,  so  much  alike  do  they 

seem ; 
Often   I  notice  that  thistles  and  weeds  spring  up 

without  planting, 
While  the  harvest  dies  out  under  husbandman's 

hand. 
But  what  answered  Cornelia  the  Roman?     These 

are  my  jewels, 
Pointing   down  at  her  babes,  ^who  were  asleep 

in  their  crib. 
O  the  beautiful  children  —  two  boys !  methinks 

I  behold  them 
Lying  with  thick  little  arms  folded  in  sweetest 

embrace. 
Think  what  it  means  —  two  boys !  when  grown 

to  be  men  they  are  Romans ! 
Senators  greater  than  Kings,  conquerors,  too, 

of  the  world." 
So  spake  the  maiden,  till  speech  seemed  lost  in 

the  flow  of  her  fancies 
Floating  away  on  a  sea  known   to  her  vision 

alone. 

Still  O  maiden,  I  mark  in  thy  words  the  mother 
of  heroes, 


124  PRORSUti    RETRORSUS. 

And  thy  kinship  is  traced  not  in  the  lines  of 

descent, 
But  in  the  spirit,  more  truly  kindred  than  blood 

or  the  body, 
Stamping  its  seal  on  the  act,  clearer  to  read 

than  the  print. 
Deep  is  thy  rapture  to  image  thyself  the  mother 

of  Great  Men 
Born  to  rule  the  whole  world,  as  from  Olympus 

the  Gods. 
Yes,  thyself  thou  hast  named,  hereafter  hold  fast 

to  thy  title, 
Young  Cornelia  of  Rome,  mother  of  possible 

sons 
Like  the  old  Romans,  men  of  the  mightiest  will 

and  of  action  : 

Thy  great  son,  may  he  make  Italy  great  as  of 
yore! 

6.  Tiber  and  Arethusa. 

Swollen  and  angry  seems  always  the  brow  of  the 

God  of  the  Tiber  ; 
He  has  a  right  to  his  wrath  if  we  but  think  of 

his  lot ; 
All  the  drains  of  the  earth  and  streams  that  wash 

alien  countries 
Have  been  gathered  by  time  into  the  torrent  of 

Rome, 
To  be  sent  down  her  channel  afar  to  the  limitless 

ocean, 


ECCE    ROMA.  125 

Which  doth   lave  every  land  round  the  new 

shores  of  the  world. 
But  now  behold  this  fountain  of  joy  that  runs 

through  the  city ! 
Greek  Arethusa  has  flowed  under  the  sea  into 

Rome. 
Where  the  Greek  rivulet  pours  its  transparency 

into  the  river, 
The  stern  frown  of  the  God  drops  into  dimples 

of  joy; 
Thither  I  love  to  saunter  at  random  along  the 

bright  border, 

Till  the  clear  waters  be  lost,  lost  in  the  turbu 
lent  wave. 

7.  The  Two  Muses. 

Two   fair    daughters    were   born   to    the   ages, 

Camena  and  Musa; 
Giantess  grew  up  the  one,  swaying  all  men  to 

her  will, 
While  the  sweet  sister   has  always  remained  a 

blooming  young  maiden, 

Sixteen  summers  she  has  ;  'tis  the  old  story  of 
love. 

8.  The  Two  Streams. 

Clear  are  thy  fountains,  O  Hellas,  as  out  of  the 

hillsides  they  gurgle, 

And  in  a  crystalline  stream  flow  through  the 
valley  and  mead  ; 


126  PBOSSUS    BETKORSUS. 

Small  are  thy  rills,  oft  leaping  along  in  channels 

of  marble, 
Often  reposing  in  grots  under  cool  arches  o'er- 

mossed. 
Larger  than  they,  but  turbid,  is  ever  the  rush  of 

the  Tiber; 

Give   me   to   drink  of  thy  brook,    small   but 
transparent  and  glad. 

9.  Looking  Backward. 

Where  do  these  temples  look  with  their  faces  of 

pillars  and  friezes  ? 
Where  do  these  monuments  point,  with  a  set 

finger  of  stone? 
Where  do  these  statues  that  fill  with  their  forms 

vast  halls  and  museums 
Turn  when  they  whisper  of  home,  hinting  of 

destiny  rude? 
Where  but  to  Hellas,  the  happy  abode  of  their 

freedom, 

Ere   the   Roman   had    come,   thralling   their 
beauty  to  use. 

10.  The  Sigh  of  Hellas  in  Rome. 

Rome,  I  have  fed  with  peaceful  delight  on  thy 

honey  delicious, 

Daily  I  open  new  hives  built  in  the  ages  of 
yore. 


ECCE    ROMA.  127 

Dead  long  since  are  the  bees  that  gathered  these 

stores  of  enjoyment, 
Heliconian  swarm,  reared  on  the  flowers  of 

Greece. 
Still  the  sweet  structure  of  cunning  instinctive  is 

not  as  they  left  it, 
Broken  and  scattered  and  stained  are  all  the 

fragments  so  fair. 
Yet  each  fragment  distills  a  clear  liquid  infused 

with  the  nectar 
That  long  since  down  to  earth   fell  from  the 

tables  of  Gods. 
Roaming  amid  ancient   forests   of  pillars,   now 

fallen  and  broken, 
E'en  from  the  fissures  and  breaks  I  have  been 

catching  the  drops. 
What  delight  at  the  draught  went  throbbing  in 

waves  through  the  body? 
Was  it  the  mildness  of  art,  or  the  mad  wild- 
ness  of  wine? 
Ah  !  this  moment  there   follows  the  surfeit   of 

gratification, 
Ruddy   enjoyment   now   palls,  Rome   can   no 

longer  delight. 
List !  there  is  aught  in  these  marbles  that  hints 

of  an  ancient  estrangement, 
A  low   sigh  may  be  heard  out  of   the  heart  of 

the  stones : 

"  We  are   but  captives   taken  to  grace   a  con 
queror's  triumph, 


128  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Out  of  a  b.eautiful  world  which  we  had  made 

for  ourselves ; 
Here  our  lot  is  to  seem  and  to  serve  in  the  house 

of  a  master, 
O    for    our   Hellas   once    more ;   O   for   our 

freedom  and  home." 


II.  Art. 

Art  must  be  a  true  worship  of  Gods,  not  merely 

enjoyment," 
Goddess  is  the  high  Muse,  scorns    to  be  used 

for  desire ; 
Dizened   with  jewels  of  strangers,  her  honor  at 

once  is  suspected, 

Clothed  she  must  be  in  the  robe  which  she,  a 
Goddess,  hath  woven. 

12.  The  Great  Fall. 

Speak,  O  Quirites,  and  tell  me,  ye  Csesars,  your 

fall,  your  great  downfall, 
When  into  ruin  the  world  sank  with  the  Gods 

in  the  crash; 
Read  me  your  doom,  ye  Senators,  Censors   and 

great  Imperators, 
Kings  in  your  palace  once,  some  of  you  Gods 

in  your  fanes; 
What  did  ye  do,  maimed  rows  of  sad  marble,  to 

call  up  this  judgment? 


ECCE    ROMA.  129 

Misery  broods  in  your  pomp,  beggary  breeds 

in  your  homes. 
But   what  saddens  me   more  than  all   the  Ions: 

o 

pang  of  your  city, 
Hellas,  the  fair,  I  behold  lying  in  rags  on  the 

street : 
Her  I  now  see  as  the  beautiful  slave  that  served 

in  the  temple 
Built  by  the   conqueror   Rome,  with  all   the 

peoples  of  earth ; 
Free  no  longer  and  pure,  she  lost   her  heavenly 

figure, 
Though  she  was  decked  with  the  wealth  ta'en 

from  the  spoils  of  a  world. 
Forms  and  abodes  of  the  Gods,  she,  a  slave,  no 

longer  created, 

Once  a  Goddess  herself,  sprung  of   Olympian 
seed. 

13.  A  Translation. 

I  am  everything  ancient  and  modern  at  Rome, 

the  eternal ! 
Here  on  this  spot  where  is  all,  how  can  I  help 

being  all  — 
Past  and  future,  the  high  and  the  low,  the  good 

and  the  bad,  too? 
Lawgiver  Roman  I  come  weighing  the  law  of 

the  world ; 
Conqueror  lordly  of  Britain  and  Gaul,  I  triumph 

in  wine-shops; 


130  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Orator  ancient   at  times,  thunder  I   Cicero's 

phrase. 
But  I  am  now  the  new  schoolmaster,  old  Latin 

poets  construing 

Once  again  in  my  school;   ye  are  my  school 
boys,  O  friends. 
Come,  gay  Horace  with  amorous  Ovid,  Catullus, 

Propertius, 

All  of  your  verse  I  shall  turn  into  plain  En 
glish  at  once : 
"  Captive  Greece  was  the  beautiful  mistress  kept 

by  Quirinus, 
Throned  she  lay  in  his  heart,  spurned  from  his 

morals  and  law ; 
Thou  wilt  know  the  result.     She  debauched  both 

his  heart  and  his  morals, 

While  with   her  honor's   loss,   lost   was   her 
beauty  divine." 


14.  An  Oration. 

Conscript  Fathers  of  Rome  and  of  Time,  a  speech 

in  your  Senate, 
One  short  speech  —  that  is  all  —  now   I   am 

ready  to  make  — 
Not  the  plentiful  silvery  stream  of  the  Orator 

Roman, 

But  brief  barbarous  words  shouting  the  cry  of 
these  stones: 


ECCE    EOMA.  131 

Not   enough,   O   Rome,   to    enslave   the   whole 

world  to  thy  surfeit  — 

Thou  hast  enslaved  the  Gods,  slave  thou  art 
now  to  thyself. 

15.   Premonition. 

Now  I  must  leave  thee,  O  Rome  ;  there  is  a  loud 

clock  in  the  city, 
Tolling  the  limit  of  time  when  the  sad  guest 

must  depart ; 
Louder  still  I  can  hear  the  stroke  of  the  clock  in 

my  bosom, 

Smiting  with   hammer  of  steel:    now  I  must 
leave  thee,  O  Borne. 

16.  The  Two  Guides. 

As  thy  virtue,  O  Latium,  is  mad,  so  thy  pleasure 

is  beastly; 
Hellas  enjoys  and  refrains  sweetly  together  in 

one. 
Thou  art,  O  Roman,  either  too  good  or  too  bad 

for  my  journey ; 

Thou,  O  Greek,  art  a  man,  come,  let  me  take 
thee  along. 

17.  The  Two  Cities. 

Looking  before   me  I  see   happy  banks  in  the 
skies  built  of  sunshine, 


132  PBOBSUS    EETBORSUS. 

Looking  behind  me  I  feel  clouds  in  mine  eyes 

full  of  rain ; 
Why  are  the  heavens  there  full  of  joy,  and  here 

full  of  sorrow  ? 
Some  I  am   leaving  behind,  Athens  is  lying 

before. 

18.    Retrorsus. 

Now,   O   Some,   is   my   path   where  point  thy 

fingers  of  marble, 
Where  thy  speaking  stones  say  is  the  land  of 

their  birth, 
Where  is  the  home  of  the  forms  that  uphold  thy 

arches  triumphal, 
Home  of  the  urns  of  thy  dead,  wreathed  with 

fresh  flowers  of  life. 
'Tis  the  secret  command   of  thy  heart,  O  city 

imperial, 

Now  the  fountain  to   find  whence  is  derived 
the  stream. 

19.  Prorsus. 

Swinging  on  high  between  two  visions  seemeth 

my  journey, 
As  the  pendulum  swings  back  from  a  tick  to  a 

tick; 
And  on  the  clock  of  the  world  I  am  marking  the 

weightiest  moments, 


ECCE    EOMA. 


As  I  sweep  to  and  fro  through  the  dead  ages 

embalmed. 
Substance  fades  to  a  dream,  but  the  dream  soon 

hardens  to  substance, 
Huge   Coliseum   recedes,   Parthenon  rises  to 


*& 
view. 


PART  SECOND. 


Epigrammatic    Voyage. 


(135) 


Could  I  but  give  to  thee  half  the  delight  in  read 
ing  these  verses 
That  I  feel  as  I  make  all  of  them  leap  to   my 

beat, 

Surely  our  friendship  would  be  in  this  book  for 
ever  recorded : 
Vain  is  the  hope,  thou   hast  too  many  other 

good  books. 
Still  I  shall  write  it,  doing  my  best  to  please  two 

persons, 
Namely,  myself  and  the  God  ;  hardly  the  third 

I  expect. 
ROMJE,  KAL.,  OCT.  1878. 


(136) 


100k  Jfirst 


Italy. 
1. 

On  the  Sea. 

All  the  sea  was  a  smile  and  a  twinkle  was  every 

wavelet, 

Cheerily  flew  the  white  sails  big  with  the  favor 
ing  breeze, 
And  the  ship  —  the  new  ship  —  bore  away  to  the 

goal  of  her  voyage, 
While  the  steersman  in  sport  dallied  with  water 

and  wind. 
Merrily  under  the  touch  of  the  rudder  is  rocking 

the  vessel, 

Rising  a  little  above,  falling  a  little  below, 

(137) 


138  PRORtiUS    RETRORSUS. 

Eager  to  dance  on  the  sea  with  the  billow  and 

romp  with  the  sunbeam, 
While  the  wares  in  the  hold  safely  to  haven  it 

brings. 
Epigrams,  rise!  your  voyage  begins,  now  rock 

with  the  vessel, 
One  with  the  sway  of  the  ship,  one  with  the 

storm  and  the  calm. 
Be  ye  the  soul  at  the  helm,  and  be  ye  the  voice 

of  the  helmsman, 

Be  ye  the  sea  and  the  land,  be  ye  the  present 
and  past. 

2 

Festive  processions  of  Nereids  drawn  by  silver- 
reined  dolphins 
Wind  in  the  curls  of  the  sea,  curled  by  soft 

Zephyrus'  hand ; 
Shell-blowing  Tritons  rise  up  and  announce  the 

approach  of  Poseidon, 
Then  sink  under  the  tide  to  the  hoarse  note  of 

their  shells. 
Look  o'er  waves  to  the  line  of  yon  blue,  'tis  a 

festival  splendid, 

Thousand  of  deities  hoar  float  round  Poseidon's 
moist  car. 

3 

Royal  Poseidon  has  harnessed  his  horses  to  his 
blue  chariot, 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  139 

White  flow  their  manes  in  the  wind  as  they  are 

racing  to  shore ; 

On  the  surface  they  play  with  the  infinite  move 
ment  of  water, 
Dancing  the  dance  of  the  sea  over  the  caroling 

waves ; 
But  as  soon   as  they  brush   underneath   on  the 

strand's  pebbly  bottom, 
Broken  and  foaming  they  fall  headlong  against 

the  hard  beach. 
Noble  thy  steeds,  O  Poseidon,  and  ever  the  more 

to  be  valued, 

That  no  feet  they  possess  which  can  step  out  of 
the  sea. 


Eoguish,  light-winged    epigram,   boldest   rover 

of  Hellas, 
Robber  too  of  her  sweets,  lurking  on  all  of 

her  ways, 
Little   pirate   on   poesy's   ocean,    now   I    have 

caught  thee ; 

Give  me  some  of  thy  spoils  else  I  shall  crush 
thee  to  prose. 


Wavelet,  why  dost  thou  seek  to  walk  out  of  thy 

kingdom  of  waters, 

Where  is  woven   thy   robe   out  of  the   blue 
skies?  — 


140  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Nereid,  why  art  thou  trying  to  leave   the  gay 

train  of  Poseidon, 
Losing  thy  beautiful  form  at  the  first  touch  of 

the  land, 
Thou   wilt  but  flounder  a   moment  among  the 

rough  stones  of  the  shallows, 
Watery  film  are  thy  hands  —  they  cannot  cling 
to  the  earth. 


The  God's  trident  hath  not  the  sole  power  to  rule 

on  the  Ocean, 
A  fair  girdle  I  saw  fondled  and  kissed  by  the 

waves ; 
Each  of  them  sought  it,  lovingly   pressed  it  a 

moment,  then  lost  it ; 
O  the  great   hand  of  the  sea,  how   it   would 

clutch  for  the  prize, 
Trying  to  hold   in   its  watery  grasp  that  girdle 

inconstant, 
Which  through  its  fingers    would  slip  —  vain 

was  the  task  of  a  God. 
Laughing  it  swayed  to  the  rise  and  the  fall  of 

the  refluent  bosom 
Sprung  of  the  billowy  spume ;  here  Aphrodite 

once  rose, 
Here  now  she  rises  again  from  the  wave  and  is 

free  of  her  sea-robe, 

Stands  at  the  helm  of  the  ship,  changes  its 
course  to  her  spell, 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  141 

Hanging  her  zone  on  the    rudder ;  I  knew  it  as 

soon  as  I  saw  it ! 

Oft  have  I  seen  it  on  land,  plaything  of  Eros 
her  boy. 

7 

Eros,  I  warn  thee,  in  this  epigrammatical  voyage 
I  shall  not  take  thee  along,  put  up  thy  arrow 

and  bow, 
Breathe  not  thy  flattering  breath  on  my  words, 

stop  caressing  my  fancies, 
Thou  art  too  much  of  a  boy,  I  am  too  much  of 

a  man. — 
But  the  sly  rogue  laughs  hundreds  of  sweet  little 

epigrams  at  me, 
Hundreds  and  hundreds  they  fly,  filling  these 

classical  skies. 
He  hath  stolen  my  weapon  poetic  and  turned  it 

against  me, 

As  from  the   War-God  he  stole  buckler  and 
spear  and  the  sword. 

8 

Epigram,  tell  me,  gay  charmer,  the  source  of  thy 

wonderful  genius ; 
Turn  now  thy  verse  on  thyself,  thee  by  thy 

light  let  me  see, 
And  in  a  distich  behold  thy  true  face  by  double 

reflection  ; 


142  PKOESUS    KETEOBSUS. 

Rise,  Hexameter,  there ;  follow,  Pentameter, 

too. — 
"  Curious  voyager,  why  break  open  my  virginal 

treasure  ? 
Touch  but  my  two  little  lips  making  a  mouth 

for  thy  kiss." 

9 

Thou  must  behold  in  the  sea  not  merely  the  sea 

but  the  image 
Mirrored  down  in  the  deep,  changing  to  forms 

of  the  Gods ; 
Water,  as  water,  is  always  insipid,  without  its 

reflection  — 
The  fair  Nymph  in  the  brook,  Nereid  under  the 

sea. 
But  if  no  Deity  thou  canst  behold  in  the  rill  or 

the  ocean, 

Peer  once  more  in  its  glass,  there  thou  beholdest 
thy  face. 

10 

Epigrams  scatter  I  over  my  page  like  the  shells 

of  the  mussel 
Which   on   the  bottom  lie  strown   under  the 

rollicking  waves ; 
Reader,  be  thou  my  pearl  diver,  valiantly  plunge 

in  the  waters, 

Say  thy  prayers  first,  ere  thou  sink  down  to  the 
depths ; 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  143 

Then  will  a  beautiful  Nereid  lay  on  thy  finger  a 

mussel ; 

Raise  it   and  crack   it ;  perchance  hid  in  the 
shell  is  a  pearl. 

11 

Epigram,  speed  thee,  be  a  little   more  epigram 
matic, 

In  but  a  distich's  sweet  kiss  press  me  thy  two 
tiny  lips. 

12 

Water  I  saw   once   thrown  on  the  sunshine  in 

order  to  quench  it ; 

All  of  the  water  was  spilled,   but  the  bright 
sunshine  remained. 

13 

At  a  bright  coal  of  fire  a  wasp  grew  angry  —  he 

stung  it ; 

His  fine  stinger  was    clipped,    but    the    coal 
glowed  as  before. 

14 

Whither,  O  whither,  my  frolicsome  boat,  is  the 

flight  of  thy  swan-wings? 
Daringly  enter  this  stream  pouring  down  into 

the  sea, 
Pouring  down  into  the  world  through  the  gate  of 

the  past  to  the  future ; 


144  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Narrow  thy  course  to  its  banks,  wind  with  its 

turns  through  the  plain, 
Till  we  reach  in  our  voyage  the  highest  Olympian 

sources, 

Sailing  on  sea  and  on  land,  sailing  up  mount 
ain  and  sky. 

15 
In  the  Olives. 

As  I  passed  underneath,  there  fell  the  gray  leaf 

of  the  .Olive, 
Pricked  with  a  needle  of  frost,  'twas  the  first 

leaf  of  the  fall ; 
Gently  it  lodged  in  my   hair,  and  found  too  a 

frosted  companion, 
Which  had    there    stealthily    crept,    stealing 

along  with  the  years. 
There  lay  the  leaf,  and  it  stroked  me  as  if  the 

soft  hand  of  Minerva, 

Her  sweet  benison  gave  out   of  her   favorite 
tree. 

16 

Why  has  the  frolicsome  Olive  been  called  the 

tree  of  sage  Pallas  ? 
See  the  green  branches  of  youth  gleam  with 

the  silver  of  age, 
Poesy's  juvenile    buoyancy    blent    with    grave 

wisdom's  reflection; 

On  each  leaflet  behold  choruses  danced  to  the 
sun. 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  145 

Then  look    up    at    the  fruit  on  the  twigs  sus 
pended  by  handfuls, 

Such  is  the  Goddess'  gift;   take  it,  'tis  thine, 
if  thou  canst. 

17 

Under  the  Olives  I  wander,  silvery  green  is  the 

sparkle, 
Dancing  about  on  the  leaves  with   the   new 

rays  of  the  sun  ; 
Fruit  is  just  turning  dark  to  mature  along  with 

the  season, 
While  the  skipping  gay  hours  diadems  weave 

on  the  hills. 
Crude  and  green  on  the  branches  is  hanging  still 

many  a  berry, 
But  this  sun  in  the  south  quickly   will   ripen 

them  all. 
Long  I  loiter  delighted,  though  always  I  sigh  for 

the  harvest, 
As  I  look  up  at  the  limbs  laden  with  layers  of 

fruit. 
Tarry   until  the   green  leaf   of   the   tree -top    is 

struck  by  the  hoar-frost, 
Not  an  olive  matures  till  it  be  smitten  by  fate. 

18 

A  slight  frost  often  touches  before  the  harvest 

will  ripen, 

The  crude  growth  of  the  tree  softens  to  mild 
ness  and  strength  ; 

10 


146  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

From  the    foliage   words  of    the   Goddess  are 

silently  dropping, 
"  Gather  the  fruit,  O  man  ;  hasten,  thy  harvest 

has  come.'* 

19 

On  the  Mountain. 

I  can  tell  you  a  secret  about  the  ascent  of   this 

mountain ; 
If  from  below  you  look  up,  why,  it  appears 

but  one  top 
Which  you  can  easily  reach,  but   it  is   a  long 

series  of  summits, 

Each  one  struggling  above  with  pleasant  val 
leys  between. 
When  you  have  reached  one  summit,  there  breaks 

overhead  yet  another ; 
Thus  you  laboriously  climb,  viewing  a  height 

ever  new. 
Loiter,  I  pray,  at  times  in  the  vales,  in  the  folds 

of  the  mountain, 

There  the  flowers  will  bloom,  there  too   the 
shepherd  will  pipe. 

20 

Crystalline  folds,  as  they  lie  on  the  form  of  the 

Goddess,  thou  knowest, 

They  can  be  seen  on  this  mount  resting  serene 
in  the  sun  ; 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  147 

What  are  the    dingles    and    dells   that   roll   in 

millions  of  wavelets 

Down  the  sides  of  the  slope,  but  the  mild  flow 
of  the  folds? 

21 

What  a  wild  symphony  heard  I  to-day  on  the  top 

of  the  mountain ! 
Foremost  came   the  small  bee  piping  soprano 

above, 
Then  the  big  bumble  bee  slowly  was  droning  his 

note,  the  deep  basso, 
While  the   fly  on   his  flute  played  a  soft  alto 

between. 
Thousands  of  fiddlers  were  daintily  touching  the 

strings  of  their  fiddles, 

Large  and  little  were  there,  tuned  to  the  key 
note  of  clime. 
All  were   at  work   on   the  flowers,  not  thinking 

they  made  any  music, 

Still  their  work  ever  moved  to  the  sweet  music 
they  made. 

22 

Stop  and  listen !  here  is  the  mead  and   there  is 

the  mountain; 
Soft  tones   echo  from  both  if  thou  wilt  hear 

them  alone  ; 
Give  up  thy  breath  for  a  moment !  catch  the  new 

voice  of  all  nature ! 


148  PJtORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Thou   must  not  think  of  thyself,  if  thou  wilt 

hear  what  it  says. 
One   deep  note  it   becomes  now,  swelling  above 

the  whole  landscape, 
But  thou  wilt  lose   it  at  once,  if  to  repeat  it 

thou  seek. 

23 

Loftily  over  the  brow  of  the  mountain  is  hanging 

a  ruin, 
Ready  to  tumble   beneath,  seeming  to  sink  in 

itself ; 
Once   it  was  peopled  with  monks,  but   now  it  is 

held  by  the  Dryads, 
Who  have  re-taken  their   home,  whence   they 

were  driven  of  old, 
Now  I  can  enter  the  cloister,  a  member  become 

of  their  order; 
Bring  me  a  hair  skin   of  moss,  wreathe  me  a 

cowl  of  green  leaves, 
Clothe  me,  O  Nymphs,  in  embraces,  hang  on  my 

lips  your  caresses, 
That  by  your  rites  I  become  here  in  my  cell  a 

good  monk. 
How  I  can  sing  in  these  ruins  —  let  them   fall 

inside  and  outside; 

On  this  fresh  cloistered  moss  how  I  can  sleep  — 
let  it  grow. 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  149 

24 

A  dark  ghost  was  flitting  alone  through  the  walls 

of  the  cloister, 
Mid   the   ruins   it   sped,  vanishing  soon   into 

mist; 
What  could  it  be  ?     The  last  monk.     The  fountain 

there  laughed  more  clearly 
As  the  Nymphs  of  the  stream  saw  the  lone 
specter  depart. 

25 

Here  I  rest  in  the  far-glancing,  sun-roofed  temple 

of  Phrebus 
Spreading  over  my  head  through  to  the  ends 

of  the  world ; 
Far  below  in  the  vale  is   the   olive-green   floor 

of  the  tree-tops, 
Pillars   are   mountains   of   stone   holding  the 

golden  round  roof. 
Such  my  Pantheon  is  now,  where  all  of  the  Gods 

are  assembled, 

Holding  a  festival   free,  in  an  Hellenic  high 
strain. 

26 

With  his  fingers  of  gold  now  softly  Apollo  is 

feeling 

Over  the  breasts  of  the  hills,  drowsy  as  yet  in 
the  dawn ; 


150  PKORSUS    KETRORSUS. 

Like  a  fond  waking  husband  he  turns  with  a  face 

full  of  splendor 
To  his  sweet  spouse,  the  earth,  golden  caresses 

to  reach. 
There  she  is  lying  with  bosom  burst  out  in  the 

glow  of  his  glances, 
She,  with  a  smile  half  asleep,  gives  the  response 

to  his  touch. 

27 

Here  is   the  flower,  the  holder  of  honey,  trans 
mute  it  to  verses ; 
Six  white  leaves  form  a  star,  looking  above  at. 

the  stars, 
Often  diverse  is  the  size,  and  varied  is  often  the 

color, 
Purple  at  times  it  becomes,  vanishing  faintly 

to  blue. 
Inside   golden  it  is,  where  shines  too  the  bees' 

sweet  treasure; 

Pluck  it  up  from  the  ground,  plant  it  anew  in 
thy  soil. 

28 

Small  is  the  mountain,    but  of  its  sweets  thou 

canst  gather  a  mouthful, 
Or  a  hiveful  perchance,  if  thou  art  truly  a  bee. 

29 
In  the  Vineyard. 

A  stray  bird  came  to  Delphi  and  pecked  at  the 
grapes  of  the  vineyard, 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  151 

Drunken  with  juice  he  began  strangely  to  sing 
a  new  song. 

30 

Epigrams  always  are  hanging  over  my  walks  in 

long  clusters, 
Attic  grapes  they  are,  full  of  the  juice  of  the 

clime; 
On  the  path  of  my  journey  I  roam  through  antique 

vineyards, 

Many  a  bunch  I  receive  plucked  by  the  grow 
er's  own  hand. 
All  are  not  equally  good   in  the  bunch,  some  are 

small,  some  are  green  still, 
Pick  them  off  one  by  one  noting  their  various 

worth. 
Every  grape  must  be  crushed  with  a  thought,  not 

stupidly  swallowed, 

If  thou  wilt  feel  the  light  glow  lit  in  the  grape 
by  the  God. 

31 

Drops  that  were  craftily  hid  in  the  clusters  now 

gather  in  gushes, 
Break   from   within  the   soft  pulp  out  of  the 

heart  of  the  grape ; 
Long  has  the  droplet  been  ripening  there  in  the 

joy  of  the  sunshine, 

Earth,  air,  heaven  above,  all  have  been  giving 
their  aid ; 


152  PBOBSUS    BETBOBSUS. 

And  the  old   vine-dresser  many  a  year  has  been 

training  the  branches 

Just  for  thy  rapture  to-day ;  here  thou  hast  all 
of  their  gifts. 

32 

Wouldst  thou    know  the    sweetest,    sublimest 

lesson  of  Nature, 
What  the  Poet  repeats  in  the  keen  flash  of  his 

words, 
What     Divinity   utters    gliding     a-down     from 

Olympus, 
What,  too,  Philosophy  says  in  the  deep  cast 

of  her  brow? 
This  it  is :  from  the  soil  sips  each  little  mouth  of 

the  rootlet, 

From  the  rootlet  sips  uninterrupted  the  grape, 
And  from  the  grape  sips  man  the  immortal,  the 

top  of  creation, 
Dowered  with  reason  divine,  like  in  his  form 

to  a  God. 
Rootlets  are  tipplers,  intoxicated  are  all  of  the 

clusters, 

Bacchanals  too  are  the  vines,  crooked  and  reel 
ing  around. 

See  them  rise  from  the  earth  to  a  deity,  wreath 
ing  his  body, 

Gently  diffusing  their  juice  ;  note  thy  example, 
O  man. 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  153 

33 

The  coy  blink  of  this  virginal  wine  is  my  treasure 

forever, 
Maiden  sincere  as  the  word  which  she  inspireth 

in  hearts; 
Let  me  now  touch,  ere  Time  slip  away,  my  lips 

to  the  virgin, 

Who  doth   smile  in  the  glass   brimming  im 
maculate  love. 

34 

Mortal  the  eye  is  and  so  must  remain,  still   it 

sees  things  immortal ; 
High  Bacchic  pomp  it  beholds  in  but  a  cup  of 

the  wine ; 
And  in  each  drop  uplifted  to  lips  from  the  fount 

of  Castalia, 

Bathers  divine  it  can  see  sporting  white  limbs 
in  a  stream. 

35 

By  the  Way. 

One,  O  Greek,  was   thine  eye  and  thy  soul,  in 

a  harmony  splendid 
Both  together  were  blent  that  they  no  parting 

allowed ; 
Sight  was  insight  to  thee,  and  thought  a  trans- 

spicuous  image, 

Thou  didst  see  with  thy  soul,  soul  too  beheld 
with  thy  glance ; 


154  PEORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

In  thine  eye  as  a  mirror  were  seen  all  the  colors 

of  nature, 

Calmly  reflecting  therein  depths  that  belong  to 
the   soul. 

36 

Poesy  cannot  behold  her  own  flight  to  poetical 

regions, 
When  she  looks  back  at  her  wings,  then  is  she 

fallen  to  earth; 
She  must  soar  to  the   goal   in  her  rapture,   not 

think  she  is  soaring, 

Fair  she  also  must  be,  —  let  her  not  think  she 
is  fair. 

37 

Why  so  modest,  my  dear  little  epigram,  poesy's 

sweet-heart  ? 
I  would  thy  lover  be  now,  lisp  me  thy  tender- 

est  word.  — 
Voyager,  I  cannot  say  I  am  modest,  because  I 

am  modest, 

If  I  could  tell  what  I  am,  then  thou  wouldst 
love  me  no  more. 

38 

Fond  epigrammatist,  thou  art  my  lover,  be  not 

my  betrayer ; 

Leave   me   my  virginal  charm,  else  thou  wilt 
spurn  me  thyself, 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  155 

Seek  not  my  maidenly  mystery  wooing  the  love 

of  thy  verses, 

Else  not  a  line,   not  a  word  can  I  impress  on 
thy  lips. 

39 

Placid  thy  speech,  O  Homer,  transparent  it  runs 

like  the  brooklet, 
Under  the  surface  we  see  Nymphs  in  the  fount 

of  thy  words, 
Freely   disporting   their    forms,   and    revealing 

divinest  perfections  ; 

Now   with   the    brooklet   behold   always    the 
Nymph  underneath. 

40 

To  a  nest  of  bowls  I  am  fain  to  liken  these  poems, 
Outside  and  inside  are  bowls,  each  can  be  seen 

in  the  one  ; 
And  yet   each   is   itself   altogether,   cannot    be 

another, 

Thou   must  the   inside   discern,    if    thou  the 
outside  wilt  know. 

4 

41 

Hercules  had  two  fathers,  a  mortal  and  an  im 
mortal, 

So   had    Theseus    bold,    Attica's    pride    and 
defense: 

So  has  every  Hero  filled  with  mighty  endeavor, 


156  PJKORSUS    BETBOBSUS. 

He  is  the  child  of  some  God  stealthily  gliding 
to  earth. 

42 

Why  is  the  father  of  Heroes  often  the  weakest 

of  mortals? 
Why  so  seldom  the  sons  have  the  endowment 

divine? 
Some  invisible  strand  winds  through  our  domestic 

relation, 
Which  reaching   up    to   the   Gods,   draws   a 

Promethean  spark. 
Two  are  the  households  of  man  and  his  kinship 

ever  is  double, 

To  an  Olympian  hearth,  though  here  below,  he 
belongs. 

43 

Wake  not  love  in  these  epigrams,  be  a  little  more 

careful, 
Leave  thy  caresses,  O  Muse,  which  thou  dost 

drop  in  my  lines, 
Well  thou  knowest  my  weakness,  and  laughest  a 

verse  at  my  purpose : 
A  suspicion  I  have  that  thou  wilt  waylay  my 

words, 
Catching  them  up  from  my  lips  before  I  can 

train  them  to  duty; 

In  these  epigrams,  Muse,   wake  not  my  love 
with  thv  kiss. 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  157 


44 

Art  thou  sick?     Then  go  out  and  list  to  the  little 

musicians, 
That  by  the  hundreds  now  pipe  under  the  half- 

bursted  buds ; 
Hark  to  the  strain  !  they  turn  each  tree-top  into 

a  fountain 

Welling  melodious  jets  high  in  the  air  over 
head. 
Find  out  what  they  are   singing  as   they   now 

greet  the  new  spring-time, 
That  will  heal  thee,    my  friend;    it   is   great 
Nature's  first  balm. 


45 

Guess  me  the  maiden  I  love,  the  maiden  most 

beautiful,  dearest, 

Who  hath  never  yet  known  that  she  is  beauti 
ful,  dear; 
But  if  she  turns  and  looks  for  a  moment  into  her 

mirror, 
At  her  glance  her  own  face  vanishes  out  of  the 

glass; 
I  can  stand  all  the  day  and  gaze  at  her  beautiful 

image, 

If  she  herself  takes  a  peep,  then  she   is  fled 
from  the  world. 


158  PSOBSUS    BETRORSUS. 

46 

Out  of  the  sky  came  an  eagle,  it  dived  to  the 

earth  for  a  weasel, 
Then  it  soared  to  the  clouds  rapidly,  passed  out 

of  sight 

Into  ethereal  regions  ;  soon  from  its  eerie  in  cloud- 
land 
Down  it  fell  dead  at  my  feet,  with  its  heart's 

blood  on  its  breast. 

What  had  become  of  the  weasel  ?   From  its  high- 
soaring  victim 

I  could  see  it  run  off  to  its  old  hole  in  the 
rocks. 

47 

Voyage  you  call  it :  But  tell  me  where  are  the  sea 

and  the  vessel? 

Under  my  feet  is  no  plank,  points  of  the  com 
pass  are  lost. — 
Epigrams,  friend,  are  the  whole  of  my  craft,  now 

a  ship,  now  a  shallop, 
Thoughts  are  the  timbers  inlaid,   fancies  the 

fluttering  sails, 

And  I  float  my  epigrammatical  fleet  on  an  ocean 
Laughingly  yielding  its  wave  to  the  soft  breath 
of  the  Gods. 

48 

Reader,  I  deem  thou  already  hast  quit   me  thy 
voyager  epigrammatic, 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  159 

Fallen   perchance  by  the  way,  quite  overcome 

by  fatigue ; 
Still  I  often  shall  hopefully  call  thee  as  if  thou 

wert  present, 
With  me  a  friend  I  must  think,  though  there 

be  really  none. 

49 

Naples. 

On  the  strand  overborne  by  the  frown  of  high 

Posilupo 
Stood  I  and  looked  to  the  sea  praying  Poseidon 

to  rise ; 
Soon  came  the  God  at  my  call  in  his  chariot  over 

the  surface, 
Through  the  bright  waves  of  the  sea  cutting  a 

track  of  quick  light. 
But  as  he  neared  the  low  shore  and  touched  the 

firm  sand  of  the  shallows, 
Horses  and  chariot  and  God  broke  into  foam  at 
my  feet. 

50 

In  the  soft  arms  of  Poseidon  is  the  dear  home  of 

the  sea-nymphs ; 
Do  not  decoy  them  away  from  their  abode  to 

the  land; 
Dost  thou  not  see  that  no  feet  they  possess  to 

rise  up  from  the  waters? 

Watch   them   far   out   in   the   main,  sporting 
bright  shapes  in  the  sun. 


160  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

51 

Naples,  true  is  thy  title  to-day,  them  art  still  the 

new  city, 
Old  them  never  hast  grown,  though  on  thy  head 

lie  the  years 
By  the  thousand.     Neapolis,  Grecian  youth  is  thy 

dower, 

Which  the    old    Gods    to    thee  left  in   their 
retreat  from  the  world. 

52 

On  a  hill  whose  summit  looks  over  the  sea,  and 

whose  forehead 
With  fresh  laurels  is  wreathed,  flapping  their 

leaves  to  the  breeze 
Is  embalmed  the  Latin  Bee  mid  the  bloom  of  his 

flowers, 

Whence   such   sweetness   he   sucked   that   we 
must  seek  him  to-day. 

53 

Here  are  the  vines  introduced  long  ago  from  the 

vineland  of  Hellas, 
Here  amid  their  embrace  Virgil  of  Rome  lies 

entombed, 

Who  with  Italian  winepress  extracted  their  deli 
cate  juices ; 

May  he  forever  repose  in  the  Greek  fragrance 
inurned  I 


EPIGRAMMATIC    VOYAGE.  161 

54 

Grapes  of  sweet  flavor  I  tasted  to-day  from   the 

Mantuan  vineyard, 
Which    transplanted    had    been    from    their 

Hellenic  abode ; 
Sweet   were   the    Mantuan  grapes,  yet  sweeter 

the  thought  of  that  vineyard 
Whence  they  were  taken  of  old,  whither  the 
moments  all  throng. 

55 

Watch  the  gay  festival  pouring  a  torrent  of  joy 

down  the  Corso ; 
Hark  !  what  thunder  is  that  rumbling  beyond 

the  clear  sky ! 

Flower-girls,  lazaroni,  dancers,  pulcinelli — 
Stop !  did  the  earth  underneath  quake  to  the 

beat  of  your  feet? — 
Pleasure's  happiest   poor-house,    stronghold   of 

King  Macaroni  — 
See  !  a  red  flash  in  the  sky  glares  on  the  city 

and  land; 

Look  off  yonder,  a  dark  bloody  hand  with  thou 
sands  of  fingers 
Reaches  up  from  a  peak,  clutching  at  Gods  in 

the  skies. 

There  stretched  over  this  city  now  full  of  the  joy 
of  existence, 

11 


162  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Hovers  destiny's  hand,  threatens  as  in  the  old 
world. 

56 

The  Neapolitan  butterfly  danced  on  the  heights 

of  St.  Elmo, 
Spreading  bright  wings  to  the  sun,  drawing 

the  look  by  its  tints  ; 
When  it  lit  on  a  flower,  I  slipped  up  slyly  to 

catch  it, 

But  from  my  fingers  it  flew  ere  they  could 
close  on  its  wings. 

57 

What  a  story  is  read  to  thee  daily,  O  beautiful 

Naples ! 
'Tiy  the  Pompeian  tale  lying  just  under  thine 

eye, 

Written  in  ruins  whose  letters  are  lines  of  tenant- 
less  houses, 
Alphabet  mighty  of  Fate  carved  on  this  hill 

long  ago. 
'Tis  the  old  story  of  Hellas,  the  story  prophetic 

of  Nature, 

Thy  new  story   may  lie   writ   in   this   ruin, 
beware. 

58 
Pompeii. 

Language  of  Destiny,  lettered  in  furious  flames 
on  this  mountain, 


EPIGRAMMATIC    VOYAGE.  163 

Was  not  then  taught  in  the  school,  still  it  is 

hardly  taught  there. 
Reader,  if  not  yet  asleep  in  the  rise  and  the  fall 

of  this  voyage, 
Open  thy  senses  afresh,  now  we  are  going  to 

spell ; 
Wake!  'tis  the   hour  to   learn  an  alphabetical 

lesson 
In  this  wonderful  book ;  here  is  the  Pompeian 

school. 

59 

Ages  on  ages  were  working  in  Rome  the  mighty 

destruction, 
Which  Pompeii  befell  in  but   a   moment   of 

Time; 
Rome,  too,  had  her  Vesuvius  gathering  fire  and 

forces, 
Through  her  duration  is  strown  what  is  here 

pressed  to  a  point. 
There  it  is  written  in  large,  and  here  it  is  written 

in  little, 
In  the  fate  of  this  town  might  she  have  read 

her  own  fate. 
But   she   could  not  decipher   the  words  of  the 

flaming  inscription, 

Which   revealed   her   own   deeds  turned  into 
symbols  of  fire. 


164  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

60 

O  Pompeii,  what  shall  we  say  to  thee  rising  from 

ashes 
With  thy  body  scarce  seared,  oft  with  the  hue 

on  thy  cheek? 
Thou  hast  ages  on  ages  of  death  entombed  in 

thy  features, 
Still  to-day  thou  art  up,  in  thy  old  seat  on  the 

hill.  * 
Many  believe  hereafter  will  be  resurrection  of 

body, 

But  of  the  old  buried  town,  look,  resurrection 
has  come. 

61 

Wander  at   random   through  vacant  doors  and 

paths  of  the  city, 
Lose  thyself  in  the  net  woven  of  houses  and 

streets, 
Till  thy   brain  becomes   Pompeii   alive-  in    its 

mazes ; 

Dreams  have  fled  out  the  way,  now  thou  art 
in  the  old  world. 

62 

From  these  stones  worn  deep  by  the  tread  of  old 

generations 

Premonitions  arise   strangely   suggesting  our 
lot; 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  165 

Man  is  mixed  of  a  moment  and  of  eternal  dura 
tion, 

So  say  thousands  of  feet  stamping  their  trace 
in  the  rock. 

63 

Here  you  enter  the  Pompeian  wineshop  and  ask 

for  refreshment, 

Quickly  the  waiter  responds,  dips  with  a  long- 
handled  cup 
Through  the  small  neck  of  this  wine-jar  piercing 

the  slab  of  the  counter ; 

Cool  and  pure  is  the  bowl,  crown  it  again  with 
a  wreath. 

64 

This  is  the  temple  of  Venus  where  once  she  was 

fervently  worshiped, 
Beauty  in  figure  divine  as  she  arose  from  the 

sea  ; 
Fain   would   I   too  be   a   worshiper,    enter   her 

temple  this  morning, 

Move   mid  her  pillared  grove  to  the  fair  idol 
within. 

65 

As  we  pass  down  the  street,  there  opens  the  door 

of  a  mansion ; 
Through  its  interior  peep,  swiftly  the  vision  is 

borne 
On  the  flight  of  the  long  colonnade  to  the  green 

of  the  garden, 


166  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Whither  the  columns  are  winged,  but  can  not 

fly  to  the  goal. 
Whose  can   it    be  ?    Thy    dwelling,   O  Pansa ; 

pardon  intruders  j 
Long  art  thou   absent  from  home ;  now   it  is 

ours,  here  we  are. 

66 

When  1  beheld  thee,  Medeia,  I  seemed  to  behold 

the  Greek  woman 
Painted  by  artist  of  old  from  a  strong  face  in 

his  heart ; 
Her  I  now  seek  for  in  body,  until  I  shall  find  the 

same  features 
And  imprint  them  within  —  image  remains  not 

a  shade. 
This  is  the  fruit  of  the  journey:   to  see  in  the 

mirror  Hellenic 

What  the  world  once  was,  what  is  now  fairest 
and  best. 

67 

O  the  maiden  Hellenic,  each  house  in  the  town 

hath  her  picture ! 
Soon  she  comes  out  of  the  door,  tripping  the 

pavement  along. 
Softly  the  waves  of  her  garment  roll  down  all  the 

lines  of  her  body, 

And  the   rich  crown   of  her   hair   is  by   the 
Graces  entwined. 


EPIGRAMMATIC    VOYAGE.  167 

Out  of  the  folds  of  her  robe  there  rises  sweet 

fragrance  of  movement, 
As  the  bare  forearm  she  lifts  daintily  from  the 

white  plies. 
What  can  you  do  now  but  follow  ?     What  I  pray 

are  you  here  for? 

At  the  turn  of  some  street,  quick,  you  may 
glance  in  her  face. 

68 

O  fair  boy,  around  this  urn  where  thy  ashes  are 

resting, 
Nymphs  are  dancing  in  glee  to  the  mad  flute  of 

the  Faun; 
Joyous  was  ever  thy  life,  each  day  was  the  bloom 

of  a  banquet, 
Through  this  gate   of  the  tomb  on  thou  dost 

leap  with  a  laugh. 

Still  with  this  rout  of  merry  musicians  and  dan 
cers  around  thee, 

E'en  old  Hades  will   smile,  all  his  dark  grot 
will  be  lit. 

69 

This   is   the   Pompeian  school-house   where  an 
ciently  swayed  a  grim  master, 
Open  still  is  the  school,  enter  and  study  its 
book. 

Scholars  have  come   and  are  gone,  to-day  they 
are  coming  and  going, 


168  PKOB3US    RETRORSUS. 

Pedagogue  too  can  be  seen,  if  thou  wilt  glance 

at  thy  side. 

What  is  here  taught  do  you  ask?     The  reading 
and  writing  of  ruin  ; 

But  what  is  learned   from  old  bricks?    Epi 
grams,  spell  him  the  word. 

70 

Many  an  image  doth  lie  in  thy  ashen   embrace, 

Pompeii ; 
Statues  repose  there  unviewed,  till  they  awake 

in  the  sun ; 
Ancient  legend,  writ  on  thy  walls,  is  born  into 

color, 
Gems  lie  there  in  the  earth,  cut  with  the  lines 

of  a  Grace. 

But  of  all  of  the  images  that  lie  hid  in  thy  bosom, 
Greatest  by  far  is  thyself — Destiny's  image 
art  thou. 

71 

Destiny's  workings  within  our  world  thou  deeply 

dost  image, 
We  thy  affliction  lament,  though  we  are  blessed 

by  thy  pain ; 

For  the  Gods  have  done  thee  a  wrong,  but  man 
kind  a  blessing, 

Suffering  smiteth  the  part  that  the  great  whole 
may  be  saved. 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  169 

72 

Destiny  smiteth  the  one  with  her  scepter,  that  all 

be  forever ; 
Slayeth  this  moment  of  Time,  that  so  Eternity 

be; 

Evil  she  is  to  the  moment,  but  to  eternity  holy ; 
Wrecked  she   Pompeii  then,    hence  thou  be- 
holdest  it  now. 

73 

Vesuvius. 

Who  is  the  giant  now  under  Vesuvius  near  merry 

Naples  ? 
Dead  he  is  not  but  he  breathes  heavily  as  in  a 

dream. 
What  is  he  dreaming?  Dangerous  visions  of  fire 

and  sulphur, 
As  in  some  passion  he  rolls,  turning  from  this 

side  to  that. 
Dead  he  is  not,  but  alive,  though  just  at   this 

moment  he  sleepeth ; 

What   will   he   do   when  he   wakes?  See  the 
scarred  face  of  the  mount. 

74 

O  Vesuvius,  thy  torn  lips  loudly  speak  a  new 

language, 

Hot  are  thy  thunderous  words,  breaking  out 
deep  from  thy  heart, 


170  PBOBSUS    EETROESUS 

Orator  ancient,  red  is  the  stream  of  thy  speech 

to  thy  people, 
Dark  and  fateful  thy  breath  furiously  winds  to 

the  Gods. 
What  art  thou   saying,  O   Titan?  Thy  mighty 

foreboding  interpret  ? 

Aught  there  is  underneath  wrecking  the  world 
overhead. 

75 

Hesiod,  seeing  Vesuvius  we    have  to  see   with 

thy  vision, 
And  to  think  with  thy  thought  all  this  upheaval 

of  fire ; 
'Tis  thy  song  of  the  battle  between  the  new  Gods 

and  the  Titans, 
Clear  thy  hint  underneath  flows  in  thy  speech 

as  a  rill. 
Look !  our  pathway  Hellenic  has  wandered  now 

into  thy  poem, 

Here  is  the  work  of  the  earth,  there  is   the 
word  of  the  bard. 

76 

Here  a  peep  thou  canst  take  deep  into  the  smithy 

of  Cyclops, 

For  the  King  of  the  skies  see  now  the  thunder 
bolts  forged 

Which  he  hurls  in  his  wrath  at  the  wicked.     Then 
look  down  the  mountain, 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  171 

Thou  wilt  behold  all  his  foes  —  pierced  they 
lie  strowu  with  the  shafts. 


77 

Titans  I  saw  whose  limbs  had  been  scattered  all 

over  the  mountain, 
Writhing  still  they  lay  skewered  by  bolts  of 

high  Jove ; 
There  with  bundles  of  limbs  wound  together  fell 

huge  Hundred-Handed; 

Knotted  in   wrath  are  his  thews,  vain  is  the 
effort  to  rise. 

78 

Often  I  wonder  if  still  at  some  jar  in  the  whirl 

of  the  ages 

That  old  war  of  renown  is  to  be  kindled  afresh, 
Namely,  between  the  Titans  and  Jupiter,  near  to 

Olympus, 
For  authority's   right    over  the  sons  of  the 

Earth. 
If  so,  will   the   Olympian   father   again   be  the 

winner, 

Or  on  him  will  the  hills  this  time  be  piled  by 
his  foes? 

79 

Jupiter's  chain  holds  him  down,   but  somehow 

he  always  recovers, 

Often  he  makes  the  attempt  from  his  low  bed 
to  arise. 


172  PKORSUS    EETEOBSUS. 

Battles  have  no  end,  though  thousands  of  ages 

asunder, 
Titans   put   down   in   old  Greece,  will  in  new 

Italy  rise. 
Battles  have   no   end,  they   have   to   be  fought 

over  always, 

Victory  masks  in  defeat,  could  we  but  see  all 
the  Gods. 

80 

Fickle  Victoria,  daughter  of  Fortune,  forever  is 

changing 
Into  the  form  of  her  foe,  giving  her  plumage 

to  him ; 
Bright  are  her  feathers,  strutting  erect  all  over 

her  body, 
But  each  tick  of  the  clock  strips  a  small  quill 

from  her  wings. 
She  in  the  happiest  moment  of  triumph  begets 

her  own  victor, 

Who   will  pluck  her   last  plume,  leaving  her 
naked  Defeat. 

81 

Mountain  of  fire  that  once  overwhelmed  the  fair 

plain  of  Pompeii, 
Is  thy  master  a   God,  or   a   fierce   demon  in 

wrath  ? 
See  thy  best  and  thy  worst  deed  into  one  action 

united, 


EPIGEAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  173 

Thou  by  destruction  hast  saved  what  else  had 

perished  by  Time. 
Provident  kindness  looks  out  from  the  mask  of 

wretched  disaster, 
Evil  and  Good  in  one  shape  ever  are  fatally 

blent. 

82 

Agony,  printed  in  Lava,  is  read  from  this  side  of 

the  mountain; 
See  how  thousands  of  snakes  lie  intertwined 

round  a  heart ; 
Now  they  are  cold  and  of  stone,  though  once  they 

upreared  their  long  bodies, 
Writhing   and   hissing  through   flames  in  the 

fierce  torment  of  pain  ; 
Now   they   are   but   an   image   which   has   been 

moulded  by  Vulcan 

Deep  in  the  smelted  Earth    where  his   dark 
forge  is  at  work. 

83 

Vulcan  doth  mould  in  the  underworld  too,  there 

ruled  by  the  Titan, 
Fearful   and   vast  are   his   shapes   poured  at 

the  Cyclops'  dark  forge. 

Better  I  love  his  works  that  are  made  in  Olym 
pian  workshop, 

Where  he  dwells  with  the  Gods,  filling  their 
world  with  his  forms. 


174  PBOBSUS    EETROBSUS. 

Beautiful  Venus,  his  spouse,  there  wreathes  her 

laugh  in  his  labor, 

Near   him   the    Graces    abide,   casting    their 
glance  in  his  shop. 

84 

Homely  Vulcan,  begrimed  is  thy  hand  as  thou 

smitest  the  anvil, 
Channeled  through  soot  on  thy  front  burst  the 

great  torrents  of  sweat, 
Shaggy  the  hair   on   thy   chest   upsprings   like 

brush  on  the  hill-side, 
And  among  Gods  thou  art  lame,  limping  about 

at  thy  work. 
Still  a  God  thou,  whom  all  men  will  adore,  for 

thou  fixest 

Beautiful  forms  that  would  wilt,  were  they  not 
touched  by  thy  hand. 

85 

Look   now   back   at    the  blow  —  Greek    deities 

smote  thee,  Pompeii, 
For  degrading  their  forms,  ravishing   wildly 

their  art ; 
All    their    passions    thou    hast     without     their 

Olympian  spirit, 

Gods  for  thy  ornaments  are,  Goddesses,  too, 
for  thy  lust. 


EPIQEAMMA  TIG     VO  YAGE.  1 75 

86 

O  what  joy  in  this  epigrammatical  voyage,  what 

sorrow ! 
Out  of  two  threads  it  is  spun,  both  are  in  me 

and  in  thee, 
Both  are  in  Eome  and  Pompeii,  the  pain  and  the 

pleasure  of  being 
One  with  the  soul  of  all  time,  one  with  its 

bloom  and  decay. 
Epigrams,  come,  let  us  go,  we  must  haste  to  the 

end  of  our  voyage, 

Gladly  and  sadly  we  leave,  ancient  Pompeii, 
farewell. 

87 
The  Adriatic. 

Roman,  colossal  thy  will,  gigantic  thy  virtue,  I 

fear  thee ; 
But  thou  canst  not  enjoy,  senses  will  turn  thee 

to  swine. 
Why  must  a  man  be  a  demon  in  hell,  or  a  saint 

in  high  heaven  ? 
Why  not  a  man  on  this  Earth,  dowered  with 

body  and  soul? 
See,   our  voyage   has   strayed   to   the   path   of 

Grecian  Ulysses, 
Who  the  Sirens  could  hear,  yet  of  their  talons 

beware ; 

And  the  magical  draught  he  could  drain  of  fair 
Circe,  the  charmer," 


176  PRORSUS    RKTRORSUS. 

Still   he   remained   a   true   man,    could    even 

rescue  his  friends ; 
Years   upon  years   he   stayed   in  the  bower  of 

sweetest  Calypso, 
Never   there  losing  himself,  never  forgetting 

his  own. 
He  has  enjoyment,  he  has  restraint  too,  both  in 

one  body, 
Both  in  one  soul  he  unites,  making  the  music 

of  life, 
As   it   is  sung  in  thy  melody  ancient,  poetical 

Homer, 

Rocking  my  modern  refrain  on  thy  harmoni 
ous  seas. 

88 

Questioner,  crafty  Ulysses,  subtlety  made  thee  a 

skeptic, 
Intellect  stirred  up  the  doubt  always  at  word 

of  the  God ; 
Boldly  thou  wilt  not  believe  in  the  promise  of 

Goddess  Calypso, 
Till  she  has  sworn  the  great  oath  by  the  dark 

river  of  Hell; 
And  no  faith  thou  showest  at  first  in  the  words 

of  the  Sea  Nymph, 
All  the  Gods  thou  dost  doubt,  till  they  have 

proven  themselves. 

Even  Pallas,  thy  mighty  protectress,  must  show 
her  own  wisdom,' 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  177 

Ere  she  could  win  thy  belief  that  thou  wert 
come  to  thy  home. 

89 

With  thy  guidance  I  too  have  reached  the  bright 

land  of  Pheacians, 
Where  Alcinous  dwelt,  wonderful  monarch  of. 

eld. 
This  is  his  island,  upon  yon  hill  overlooking  the 

harbor 
He  with   his  counsellors  sat,  grave  with  the 

thought  of  the  State. 
Often  about  the  true  site  of  Pheacia  the  learned 

have  striven, 
Playing  at  blindman's  buff  in  the  dark  garret 

of  lore  ; 
Everywhere  thou  must  see  it,  on  land,  on  island, 

on  mountain, 
Thou  must  see  it  in  Greece,  anything  else  is 

not  seen. 
Mythic   Pheacia,   beheld  by   Ulysses,  is   actual 

Hellas, 
Imaged  beforehand  in  words  dropped  from  the 

lips  of  the  bard, 
Borne  from  the  thought  to  the  deed  by  the  hero  — 

a  prophecy  splendid 
Of  one  beautiful  world  heralding  others  to  be. 

12 


178  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

90 

What  a  wonderful  raft  was  made  at  the  grot  of 

Calypso, 
From  thy  cunning  of  hand  shaping  the  thought 

of  thy  brain? 
That  was  the  parent  whose  progeny  now  glides 

over  the  Ocean, 
As  the  bird  in  the  air,  braving  Poseidon's  fierce 

ire. 
Well   may   we    pardon   the   wrath   of  the  God 

divinely  foreseeing 

How  this  child  of  that  raft  scornfully  sports 
on  his  waves. 

91 

King  Alcinous,  thy  fair  palace  has   had   fairer 

offspring ! 
Thou  art  ruling  the  world  still  by  the  beautiful 

form. 
Out  of  thy  mansion  majestic  was  born  in  a  song 

the  Greek  temple, 
Sentineled     round     with     a     choir  —  Titans 

columnar  of  stone, 
Bearing  forever    their  burden   to   hymns   of  a 

Parian  measure, 
Wearing  out  heaviest  Fate  to  a  Pindaric  high 

strain. 

Look  I  those  boys  of  thy  garden  with  tapers  are 
moving  to  statues, 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  179 

Seeming   to   walk   into   stone  while  they  are 

bringing  the  light; 
Hellas  springs  out  of  thy  palace  all  sculptured 

with  actions  heroic, 

Even  the  God  we  discern  turning  to  marble  by 
faith. 

92 

Happy  if  each  of  these  poems  may  rightly  be 

called  a  small  temple ! 
First  the  colonnade  pass,  then  you  will  come 

to  the  cell ; 
If  you  enter  the  deepest  recess,  you  will  see  the 

fair  Goddess, 

And  the  worshiper,  too,  bent  at  her  shrine  in 
low  prayer. 

93 

Poets,  if  they  be  poets,  are  makers,  making  an 

image 

Which  is  to  stamp  old  Time  into  his  thousand 
fold  forms, 
And    each    thing  of    the  senses,  each   piece  of 

indifferent  matter, 
Sealed  by  their  touch  with  a  soul,  draws  a  full 

breath  of  the  Gods. 
Thou,  old  Homer,  wert  the  first  builder  in  Greece, 

the  first  carver, 

Afterward  she  could  but  turn  fancies  of  thine 
into  stone; 


180  PMOBSUS    EETBOESUS. 

Architects  followed  thee,  building  thy  poem  aloft 

into  temples, 

Sculptors  followed  thee  too,  thinking  in  marble 
thy  line. 

94 

On  thy  watery  way  I  am  sailing,  endurer  Ulysses, 
I  look  down  at   the  waves,  there  is  the  scowl 

of  the  sea, 
I  look  up  at  the  storm-cloud,  here  it  shattered 

thy  vessel, 

Yonder  I  see  too  the  height  which  then  encour 
aged  thy  heart. 

95 

Wise  Ulysses,  thy  work  has  been  done  for  thyself 

and  the  ages, 
Thou  has  suffered  for  us,  all  who  may  read  of 

thy  pain  ; 
Fighting  thy  desperate   battle  with   Fate,  thou 

hast  fought,  too,  our  battle, 
Freeing  thyself  in  thy  deed,  us  in  thy  word 

thou  hast  freed. 
Such  is  forever  the  hero,  we  share  the  reward  of 

his  sorrow, 
What  he  has  done  for  himself,  is  for  the  rest 

of  the  world. 
When  through  Hades  he  goes,  he  takes  us  too  in 

his  journey, 

When  he  to  Ithaca  comes,  we  are  along,  here 
it  is.  • 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  181 

95 
The  Outlook. 

Reader  I  beg  thee  to  step  to  my  place  on  this 

ship  and  look  forward ; 
Gladly  to  thee  I  would  give  all  that  belongs  to 

myself. 

Over  the  light-curling  ripples  is  sportively  rock 
ing  the  vessel, 
On  the  sea  to  the  East,  whither  our  voyage 

doth  tend. 
Now  we  have  come  to  the  water  once  ruled  by 

the  might  of  the  Sea-god, 
Who  in  his  chariot  of  waves  rolled  through  his 

stormy  domains, 
Who  could  rouse  up  the  soul  of  the  Sea  with  his 

trident  or  calm  it ; 
Now  we  have  entered  the  world  sunnily  built 

of  the  Myth, 
Slowly  transmuting  itself  from  the  fancy  down 

into  the  senses, 
Fables  of  ages  we  see  drop  into  Nature's  own 

garb. 
Look  far  out  on  the  line  of  the  waves,  there  rises 

Poseidon, 
Heaving  the  billows  suggest  presences  subtle 

within, 

Proteus  ancient,  daughters  of  Nereus,  thousands 
of  daughters, 


182  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Triton,  who   blows  on  his   shell  to  the   deep 

music  of  seas, 
Old  Oceanus,  Tethys  the  mother  with  floods  of 

her  children, 
All  know  their  worshiper  new,  peer  from  the 

wave  and  salute. 

It  is  sunrise,  but  in  front  of  the  sun  is  a  mountain, 
Piled  on  its  top  lie  the  clouds  bordered  with 

fringes  of  beams ; 
Helios  cannot  be  seen  now,  still  thou  wilt  know 

it  is  sunrise, 
Out  of  an  opening  deep  slants  a  long  armful 

of  rays, 
And    from  many  a  crevice  are  breaking  great 

fragments  of  splendor, 
Which   I   would  catch  up  in  speech,  turning 

their  sheen  into  verse. 
But  O  behold !  before  thee  is  resting  the  sunland 

of  Hellas, 
Bursting  the  mist  of  the  morn  over  the  space 

of  the  sea, 
Clouds  have  left  but  a  belt  of  thin  gold  bent 

round  the  horizon, 
Mountains  are  singing  a  song  from  the  high 

seats  of  the  Muse  ; 
Leap  to  the  shore  and  gather  the  world's  most 

radiant  moment, 

As  it  here  shone  in  the  past,  here  it  is  shining 
to-day. 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  183 

96 

0  Corallion,  see  yon  cloud  in  the  heavens  above 

thee: 

It   is  rain  or  snow  —  chilled  are  its  drops  or 
are  warm? 

1  would  like  to  be  rained  from  the  clouds  down 

into  thy  window, 

Or  a  snow-flake  be  —  drop  on  thy  lip  and  there 
melt. 

97 

Eros,  much  of  my  life  and  my  lay  to  thee  I  have 

given ; 
Faithful  vassal  in  verse,  1  would  repose  now 

awhile, 
Till   I   write   these   epigrams.     Hear!   to  these 

wandering  children 
Would  I  tranquillity  lend,  joys  of  a  ramble  in 

spring 
Mid  the  quiet  of  hills,  in  the  golden  repose  of 

the  sunbeams, 
Voiced  with  low  murmur  of  brooks,  far  from 

thy  passionate  call. 
Later  again  from  thy  torch  light  a  fire,  a  new  fire 

in  my  bosom, 

Fiercer  than  ever  before  kindle  my  tongue  to 
a  flame. 


184  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

98 

Now  we  are  passing  from  Italy  fair  into  beauti 
ful  Hellas; 
How  shall  we  cross  the  gulf  over  the  roar  of 

the  waves? 
Is  it   a  bridge  that  I  see  or  is  it  a  phantom  of 

fancy  ? 

Eros  has  built  it,  I  know — to  his  sweet  guid 
ance  I  trust. 


Pastorale. 
CORYDON. 

Where  hast  thou  been,  O  Tityrus,   where   hast 

thou  been,  errant  shepherd? 
For  thou  hast  fed  on  some  sweets   that  in  the 

mountain  grow  wild ; 
Fragrantly  wreathes  thy  breath  as  it  subtly  per- 

vadeth  the  cabin. 
Filling  with  incense  the  air  fit  for  the  home  of 

a  God; 
And  thy  words,  too,  thy  words  are  tenderly  laden 

with  fragrance, 

As  they  drop  from  thy  tongue  when  thou  art 
telling  thy  tale. 

(185) 


186  PBORSUS    EETBOESUS. 

Strange  that  the  sound  of  thy  voice  is  transfused 

with  the  odor  of  flowers ; 
Tell  me,  where  hastthou  been,  Tityrus,  where 
hast  thou  been? 

TITYRUS. 

Wandering  lone  in  my  journey  I  came  to   the 

ridge  of  Hymettus, 
And  ascended  the  hill  thence  to  look  over  the 

plain ; 
There  I  lay  down  to  repose  in  the  shade  mid  the 

herbs  and  the  flowers, 
Whiling  the  hours  away  watching  the  bees  at 

their  work. 
Thence  I  followed  their  flight  by  the  hum  of  the 

air  of  the  mountain, 
Till  I  came  to  their  stores  which  I  then  sipped 

to  my  fill ; 

And  I  have  learned  how  to  find  the  sweet  treas 
ures  of  blooming  Hymettus, 
Daily  now  honey   I   have,  else   I   am  sure  I 
should  die. 

CORYDON. 

Thither,  O   Tityrus,  let  me  go  with  thee,  I  too 

have  a  longing 
To  behold  the  fair  mount  hiding  such  wealth 

in  its  rocks. 
Give   me  to   silently  breathe  of  the  air  of  the 

thyme-scented  hillside, 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  187 

And  at  melodious  work  golden  bright  hummers 

to  see 
Driving  their  wings  in  the  sunbeams;  through 

the  rocks  let  me  follow, 
Till   I  may   taste  the   sweet   drop   stored  in 

Hymettus  away. 

TITYRUS. 

Corydon,  go  —  thou  must  find  for  thyself  the 

sweets  of  Hymettus, 
But  before  thou  set  out,  treasure  this  warning 

I  give : 
Twain  is  the  being  of  man,  composed  of  the  soul 

and  the  body. 
Twain  is  Nature  herself,  made  up  of  good  and 

of  bad ; 
And   Hymettus  is  twain,  of   the   bees   and  the 

goats  the  one  parent, 
Both  thou  must  take  by  the  way,  if  thou  dost 

wish  to  be  all. 
Sip  the  sweet  honey  drawn  by  the  bees  from  the 

heart  of  the  flowers, 
But  thee  I  warn  —  thou  wilt  pass  through  the 

rough  tract  of  the  goats.  — 
Yonder  comes  Phosbe,  the   shepherdess   lonely, 

still  she  is  flouting, 

I   must  be   off  to   my   flock  —  farewell,    my 
Corydon,  go. 


188  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

CORYDON. 

Shepherdess,  hear  me,  now  is  the  spring  and  thou 

art  the  flower, 
Hoary  old  Time  with  his  scythe  tarries  to  look 

at  thy  bloom; 
I  can  see  him  standing  at  rest  before  the   young 

harvest, 
What  a  glow  in  his  face  !  ardor  is  burning  his 

veins. 
Blame  him  not,  he  grows  young  in  thy  youth, 

turns  red  in  thy  rose-bud ; 
Not  a  word   thou  hast   said,  still  thy  sweet 

whisper  is  heard. 
Now  I  too  have  to  yield,  and  answer  thy  bloom 

with  my  blossom, 

Come,  the  whole  world  is  a  flower  which  we 
are  plucking  just  now. 

PHOEBE. 

Shepherd,  pick  up  thy  crook  from  the  ground,  I 

pray  thee,  be  modest ; 

Go  thy  way  to  thy  herds  ;  look,  they  have  need 
of  thy  care. 

CORYDON. 

Finest  droplet  of  sweetness  is  sipped  from  the 

earth  by  the  flower, 

On  the  flower  alights,  sipping  its  treasure,  the 
bee  ; 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  189 

From  the  stores  of  the  bee  sips  man,  of  sippers 

the  highest, 
All  the  sweetness  of  earth  he  must  distill  into 

life. 

Soil  and  flower  and  bee  are  a  channel  for  fount 
ains  of  nectar 

Ready  to  gush  in  thy  mouth ;  touch  now  thy 
lips  to  the  stream. 

PHCEBE. 

Modesty,  sweetest  of  maidens,  is  not  aware  she 

is  modest ; 

When  she  knoweth  herself,  then  she  is  never 
herself. 

CORYDON. 

Modesty's  speech  is  always  a  silence  that  tells 

she  is  modest; 

Never  declaring  her  own,  hath  she  the  sweetest 
of  praise. 

PHCEBE. 

Never  can  Modesty,  e'en  in  a  dream,  proclaim 

her  own  nature ; 

With  but   the  word    she   is   lost,  fled   at  the 
sound  of  her  voice. 

CORYDON. 

Spring  has  now  come,  she  covers  the  prostrate 
earth  with  caresses, 


190  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Show  me  the  lover   who   yields   first  to  the 

thrill  of  her  lips  ; 
I   believe   it  to   be  this   willow.     Look   at  the 

leaflets 

Breaking  out  over  the  bark,  at  her  soft  pas 
sionate  touch, 
Row  after  row ;    then  glance  at  the  willow-bound 

brook  in  the  meadow, 
Far  you  can  follow  its  bend,   traced  in  the 

foliage  new. 
Next  in  her  love  is  this  group  of  saplings,  fair 

youths  of  the  plantain, 

Dancing  a  chorus  of  twigs  tuned  to  her  amor 
ous  breath. 
This  old  oak  is  the  last  of  the  forest  to  yield  to 

her  rapture, 
Bare  still  as  winter  his  boughs,  fringed  with 

dead  leaves  of  last  year. 
But  even  he  is  beginning  to  smile  and  respond    to 

her  kisses, 
See  this  outgushing  bud  throbbed  from    his 

savage  hard  heart. 
Heart  of  oak,  yield  thee,  this  is  the  season  of  soft 

Aphrodite, 

This  is  her  land ;  stout  Mars  threw  down  his 
shield  at  her  glance. 

PHOEBE. 

Nature  is  now  a  fair  maiden  who  dresses  herself 
for  the  marriage, 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  191 

Come  and  look  at  her  thus,  all  her  old  lovers 

she  lets 
Into  the  secret  of  her  betrothal  that  comes  with 

the  spring  time, 
She  will  take  no  offense,  modestly  peep  at  her 

ways. 
Over  her  body  she  draws  in  her  triumph  a  flowing 

green  garment ; 
Emeralds  under  her  touch  burst  from  each  bud 

on  the  bough ; 
Garlands  of  blossoms  she  winds  round  her  bosom, 

velvety,  vermeil, 
Here  they  are  white  with  her  hand,  there  they 

are  blue  with  her  eye. 
Ha !  the  bright  face  of  the  bridegroom  peering 

just  over  the  mountain  ! 
'Tis  the  new  sun  from   the   skies  flinging   his 

gold  on  her  path. 
Now  her  song  she  begins,  her  sweet  passion  from 

all  of  the  tree  tops, 

With  her  each  bird  on  the  twig  chants  its  own 
bridal  refrain. 

CORYDON. 

This,  sweet  love,  is  the  fairest  moment  of  spring, 

this  moment ; 
Soon  it  will  pass  on  its  way  ;  quick,  let  us  go 

to  the  fields, 
Where  it  will  tarry  the  longest  around  the  new 

tops  of  the  woodland, 


192  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Over  the  roil  of  the  hills  vanishing  into  the 

haze. 
All  the  year  has  suddenly  bloomed  in  this  day, 

in  this  minute, 

The  whole  world  is  a  flower,  fragrantly  blow 
ing  just  now. 
Every  rise  of  the  sun  hath  seemed  in  some  joy  to 

look  forward, 
This  is  the  moment  it  saw  far  in  the  glow  of 

its  eye. 
All  the   days   of  the  year  have   been  climbing 

above  to  this  summit, 
Now  each  tick  of  the  clock  sadly  must  knell 

their  decline. 
But  thy  journey  of  life  has  now  touched  its  most 

beautiful  moment, 

Hold  it  fast  in  thy  heart  —  that   is  thy  con 
quest  of  Time. 

THE  TRIO.  —  FINALE. 

Sweet  was  the  voice  of  the  shepherdess,  tender 

the  word  of  the  shepherd, 
She  always   looked  on  her   babe,   he  always 

looked  on  his  spouse  ; 
Under  the  shade  of  a  plantain  she  nursed  her 

first  little  infant, 
While  the  lambs  lay  around  shutting  their  eyes 

in  the  sun. 
Thou,  young  wife,  art  born  over  again  in  the  life 

of  thy  offspring, 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  193 

Motherhood  too  is  a  birth,  mother  thou  art  and 

a  babe. 
Mark  !  each  suck  of  the  stout  little  lips  at   thy 

plenteous  fountain, 
Each  little  kick  on  thy  heart  changes  thee  into 

thy  boy. 

13 


100k 


Hellas. 

1 

Each  faint  rustle  of  branches  above  is  a  Goddess' 

whisper, 
Each  petty  murmur  of  brooks  is  a  low  laugh 

of  the  Nymphs, 
And  a  sweet  little  epigram  steals  from  the  glance 

of  each  maiden, 
Dew  drops  hung  on  each  leaf  are  the  pure  tears 

of  the  Muse. 

But  the  miracle  is,  thou  too  art  becoming  a  poem 
In  this  clime  of  the  Gods  ;  wonder,  O  man,  at 
thyself! 

(194) 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  195 

2 

Here  on  this  spot  knit  together  are  sea,  and  valley, 

and  mountain, 
Here  is  the  youth  of  this  plain  by  the  old  hills 

overlooked, 
Here  is  the  joy  of  the  senses,   but  mingled  with 

warnings  of  wisdom, 
Here  are  the  flowers  of  Spring  wreathing  the 

fruits  of  the  Fall. 
Hellas,  a  universe  thou  !  so  small  and  yet  thou 

art  able 

Clearly  to  image  the  world,  which,  though  it 
was,  is  to  be. 

3 

Hellas,  I  look  at  thy  body  now  lying  down  under 

my  vision, 
Over  thy  bosom  I  peep,  heaving  to  mountain 

and  peak ; 
Athens,  I  see  thee,  the  head  of  this  beautiful  body 

of  Hellas, 
From  the  blue  waves  upraised,  cushioned  on 

violet  beds, 
Brain-born  child  of  the  brain-born  daughter  of 

Zeus  the  Olympian, 

Who  hath  named  thee  her  own,   doubly  en 
dowed  with  her  mind, 

Fathered  of  father  of  Gods,   and  mothered  of 
mother  of  wisdom ; 


196  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

There  is  Acropolis  too,  which  is  thy  battle-lit 

eye, 
Glancing  afar  on  the  sea,  yet  smiling  on  blue 

Attic  hill-tops ; 

Of  this  Athenian  eye  look  in  the  pupil  so  clear, 
That  is   the  Parthenon,   sunlit,   reposeful,   the 

Goddess'  dwelling 

Out  of  it  flashes  a  beam  lighting  the  soul  of 
the  world. 

4 

Quarrymen  seemed  I  to  hear  as  they  smote  the 

deep  rock  of  the  Muses, 
For  the  pure  white  leaf  on  which  to  grave  a 

new  woid; 
Often  the  hammer   resounded  afar  through  the 

vale  of  Ilissus, 
Temples  and  Gods  into  life  moved  at  the  sound 

of  the  stroke. 

Over  the   water   came    echoes  from  Rome,  en 
feebled  by  distance, 
Laden   with  dust   of  the   past   Europe    gave 

answer  to  Rome. 
Last  came  the  echo  of  hope,  unbodied  it  rose 

from  the  future, 

Crossing  Atlantic   tides  mightily  heaving  be 
tween. 

5 

To  the  violet  summit  I  climbed  of  strong  Lyca- 
bettus, 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  197 

Bound  are  its  sides  with  the  rocks  made  for 

eternity's  walls; 
There  I  picked  but  a  weed  as  it  struggled  alone 

through  the  crevice, 
Raised  it  up  to  my  lips,  thoughtlessly  strolling 

along. 
But   how    gracious    the    flavor   that    cunningly 

touched  all  the  senses  — 

Flavor  distilled  by  a  weed  merely  from  Attica's 
rocks. 

6 

Mad  are  my  eyes !  to-day  they  are  merrily  slaves 

of  my  fancy ; 
A  Greek  maiden  I  saw  who  through  the  ages 

had  dropped ; 
She  was  one  of  the  forms  that  danced  in   the 

chorus  of  Pindar, 

And  she  sang  his  high  hymns,  moving  to  music 
of  flutes. 


Merry  Anacreon,  many  an  epigram  tells  of  thy 

days  and  their  joyance, 
And  thy  epitaph  too  ever  is  written  afresh; 
Wine  and  Love  and  the  Muse  made  thy  life  one 

intoxication, 
Even  thy  death  is  a  feast  lighting  grim  Hades 

with  joy. 

All   made  thee  drunk,  the  twitter  of  swallows, 
the  chirp  of  cicadas, 


198  PRORUUS    RETRORSUS. 

Love  of  maiden  and  youth,  gift  of  mad  Bacchus 

as  well. 
Nature  becomes  a  melodious  banquet,  reeling  in 

verses, 
Roses  and  ivy  and  vines  twirl  round  thy  lines 

with  a  laugh. 
But  the  most  maddening  draught  to  thyself  and 

to  me  is  thy  poem, 

A  true  singer  thou  art,  on  thine  own  song  thou 
art  drunk. 

8 

Far  I  rambled  to-day  through  the  grove  in  the 

vale  of  Kephissus, 

There  in  the  Olives  I  found  hidden  a  black 
berry  grot, 
Laden  with  fruit  was  each  pliant  bush,  yet  hung 

with  fresh  blossoms, 
Dark  were  the  berries  that  shone  through  the 

white  wreath  on  the  stalk. 
Now  it  is  winter,  yet  see  the  full  fruit  alongside 

of  the  flower  I 
Ripeness  of  age  in  this  clime  has    the   fresh 

blossom  of  youth. 
I  approach  the  fair  harvest  desiring  to  taste  the 

new  flavor, 
Also  the  fragrance  to  scent  breathed  from  the 

flowering  shrub. 

Heigh !  what  a  rustle  of  wings  is  flapped  from 
hundreds  of  birdlings, 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  199 

Who  a  festival   held  hidden  in   berries    and 

buds. 
Far  through  the  orchard  they  scatter,  then  drop 

on  the  tree-tops; 
Hark !  what  a  melody  trills  out  of  the  silvery 

leaves ! 


O  the  mad  Attic  joys  now  dancing  aloft  on  the 

mountains  I 
And   the    gentler   delights    tripping    through 

forest  and  stream ! 
Armies  of  happy  existence  move  out  of  the  trees 

and  the  fountains, 
Whole  new  peoples  spring  up  over  the  emerald 

floor, 

Slipping  into  the  world  for  a  moment,  then  slip 
ping  out  of  't, 

Hark,  the  new  song  they  begin  suddenly  over 
my  head. 

10 

Scattered  along  on  my  journey   are   many   old 

fragments  of  marble, 
Showing  a  crystalline  smile  on  the  sere  face  of 

the  ground ; 

Still  they  gladden  the  wanderer  mid  the  dull  rub 
bish  around  them, 

Though  they  be  but  the  chips   left  by  some 
workman  of  old. 


200  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

These  were  the   fragments  imprisoning    sunny 

Ionian  columns, 
Till  by  the  chisel  set  free  out  of  the  fetters  of 

rock; 
These  were  the  pieces  in  which  was  nestled  the 

form  of  the  Goddess, 

Look  once  more  at  the  shell  whence  the   great 
Pallas  escaped. 

11 

Once  this  plain,  now  so  rocky  and  thirsty,  was 

full  of  dense  foliage , 
Rich  aviaries  of  song  were  all  the  tops  of  the 

trees, 
Whence  a  perennial  runnel  of  music  ran  down 

from  each  leaflet, 
Nourishment  sweet   for  the   tongues   lapping 

melodious  dew. 
Still  I  can  see  in  this  soil  green  sprouts  of  many 

a  sapling 

That  would  the  grove  restore  where  the  high 
singers  once  lodged. 

12 

Look  over  Attica  !  deserts  of  rock  are  her  fields 

and  her  highlands ; 
Orphaned  of  warblers  she  seems,  orphaned  of 

trees  for  their  seats ; 
But  a  sharp  search  will  discover  still  many  a  little 

low  bramble, 


EPIGRAMMATIC    VOYAGE.  201 

Wherein  birdlings  sit  piping  a  wee  tender  note. 
When  to-day  I  had  found  a  green  bush,  it  was 

full  of  young  singers 
Warbling   some    old  Attic   chimes  tuned    to 

ancestral  high  strains. 

13 

Through  Attic   meadows   I  stroll;  I  come  to  a 

grove  of  broad  poplars 
Where  the  shepherd  breeze  plays  a  low  note  on 

his  pipe; 
Round  the  roots  of  the  trees  is  running  on  pebbles 

the  brooklet, 
Murmuring  strains  to  the  brink,  fresh  from  the 

home  of  the  Nymphs. 
But  the  tree-tops  have  given  a  refuge  to  sweet 

Attic  singers 
That    from    their    leafy    abode   throw  out  a 

fountain  of  song ; 
List  to  the  wealth  that  they  fling  on  the  air  in 

melodious  revel, 

Hundred-throated  with  joy  in  the  debauch  of 
their  strains. 

14 

On  this  classical  soil  one  cannot  help  being  an 

augur  — 

Watches    the    feathery    flight,    lists    to     the 
humming  of  wings, 


202  PRORSUS    RETHOR8U8. 

That  he  may  find  out  the  will  of  the  Gods  and 

set  it  to  music : 

Nature  is  deity's  hymn,  folding  the  earth  in  a 
song. 

15 

Poesy  is,  O  reader,   not   merely   the   copy   of 

Nature ; 
Nature's  voice  she  must  win,  breathing  it  into 

a  word ; 
But  that  word  has  Divinity's  soul  in  the  body  of 

Nature, 

From  whose  lips  you  must  catch  inward  the 
strain  of  the  God. 


16 

Often  before  have  I  rambled  through  fields  in  the 

Spring,  said  the  shepherd  ; 
But  the  green  grass-blade  to  me  was  but  a  blade 

of  green  grass; 
Or,  I  thought  it  was  good  for  a  spear  of  dry  hay 

in  a  bundle, 
Which  would  nourish  my  flock  when  the  bare 

winter  had  come. 
Now  to  my  glance,  as  I  wander  around  the  green 

Attic  meadows, 
A  new  being  it  springs  suddenly  up  at  my  feet. 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  203 

17 

Poem  I  never  could  relish  that  babbled  of  Nymphs 

and  the  Muses; 
Lifeless  they  were  to  the  eye,  meaningless  unto 

the  soul ; 
But  in  this  soil  they  now  rise  as  of  old  to  the 

vision  Hellenic, 
They  each  moment  are  born,  breathing,  yea, 

speaking  to  me. 
Seize  them  thou  must  as  they  spring  into  life  in 

the  trees,  in  the  fountains  ; 
Set   them   no   longer  to  grind,  bound  to   the 

treadmill  of  verse. 
Leave  them  alone  if  thou  art  not  able  to  merrily 

catch  them, 

Bathing  iu  the  lone  brook,  singing  their  note 
on  the  hills. 

18 

Gently  the  rill  flows  over  white  pebbles  of  Pentelic 

marble, 
Into  the  Olives  it  winds  vanishing  under  the 

leaves ; 
See  the  clear  stream  with  a  flow  like  the  folds  of 

the  Pythian  priestess, 

As  to  the  altar  she  goes  hung  on  the  thought  of 
the  God. 

19 

Winged  are  words,  O  Homer,  but  feathered  from 
various  pinions; 


204  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Some  have  the  eagle's  wing,  darting  adown  on 

the  prey ; 
Some  have  the  buzzard's,  but  hark !  altogether 

the  most  have  the  screech-owl's; 
Be  the  small  humming-bird's  mine,  always  he 

hums  while  he  sips. 

20 

Winged  is  ever  thy  word,  O  Homer  ;  such  is  thy 

vision 
That  thou  beholdest  it  fly,  sped  on  its  way  by 

the  Muse ; 
Winged  thy  word,  O  bard;  and,  propelled  on  the 

breath  of  thy  music, 

Soars  aloft  with  a  thought  tuned  to  the  flight 
of  the  spheres. 

21 

Poet  is  he  who  to  speech  transferring  the  image 

of  Nature, 

Therein  hidden  transfers  also  the  form  of  the 
God. 

22 

This  is  Hellas,  the  thyme  you  can  pluck  from  the 

stoniest  hillside ; 

Thyme  here  grows  from  the  rocks,  thence  all 
its  fragrance  it  draws. 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  205 

23 

What  is  the  highest  of  Nature,  the  noblest  of 

things  of  the  senses? 
What  but  this  body  of  life?  said  the  fair  Greek 

to  himself. 

Let  it  be  trained  until  it  become  a  mirror  trans 
parent 

In  whose  movement  you  see  all  the  fine  work 
of  the  soul. 

24 

No,  thy  form  was  not  made  to  be  stretched  on 

the  cross  of  distortion. 
But  for  the  Grace's  abode  joined  to  Apollo's 

clear  rhythm ; 
Still  the  Poet  can  hear,  as  he  notes  thy  victorious 

movements 

Hymning  thy  body's  refrain,  melody  deep  for 
his  song. 

25 

'Tis  the  Barbarian's   mark  to   behold  his   own 

shame  in  his  body, 
And  to  hide  it  in  swathes   lest   it  offend  the 

clear  eye; 
But  the  Greek  soul  has  purified  body  to  motion 

of  spirit 

That  the  immortal  Gods  take  it  with  joy  as 
their  own. 


206  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

26 

Tender  verses  I  pluck  on  my  path  from  the  tip 

of  each  leaflet, 
From  enfolding  soft  buds  sip  I  the  dew  of  the 

morn, 
Sweet  little  epigrams  lightly  I  suck  from  the  lips 

of  each  flowret, 
All  the  sweet  treasure  I  drip  into  a  honeycomb 

rare 
Made  out  of  hundreds  of  cellules  with  geometric 

precision ; 

Still  from  the  clear  waxen  fount  gushes  the 
heart  of  the  flowers. 

27 

Slowly  I  climb  to  the  top,  the  rest  of  the  heights 

lie  below  me, 
Which,  as  I  looked  from  the  plain,  seemed  very 

lofty  and  great; 

Yonder  I  was,  I  reflect  now,  laboring  joyfully  up 
ward, 
There  on  a  stone  I  sat  down,  taking   repose 

from  my  toil. 
Now  I  glance  back  from  this  seat  where  I  rest,  I 

write  a  short  poem, 

Brave  little  epigram,  up  —  quickly  advance  to 
the  top. 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  207 

28 

Many  a  new-born  kid  you  may  see  on  the  rocks 

of  Hymettus, 
Dropped  by  the  mother  there  suddenly  touched 

with  the  pang 
Ushering  life  into  light;  then  quickly  she  turns 

to  her  offspring 
With  a  fond  gleam  from  her  eye  kindled  by 

Nature's  deep  joy. 
At   a   draught   of  milk  from  the  udder  young 

knees  will  stiffen, 

Thousands  of  kids  in  their  sport  leap  on  the 
sides  of  the  hills. 

29 

New  Hymettian  quarries  of  marble  have  lately 

been  opened, 
See   the   laborer   there   cleaning   the   rubbish 

away 
Where  was  the  cloister.     At  noontide  in  the  calm 

shade  of  its  ruins 
He  will  nap  for  a  time  ;  this  is  its  very  last  use. 

30 

On  Hymettus  thou  still  canst  behold  the  remains 

of  the  quarries 

Which  for  the  marble  were  wrought,  bringing 
it  out  to  the  sun  j 


208  PRORSUti    RETSORSUS. 

Now  deserted  they  lie,  filled  up  with  the  rubbish 

of  ages, 
Yet  beneath  all  the  waste  wait  the  old  treasures 

for  light. 
Open  the  quarries  once  more  now  hid  in  the  heart 

of  Hymettus, 

Bring  out  its  crystalline  stores,    still    it    has 
temples  and  Gods. 

31 

Poesy    dost   thou  find  in  thy  strolls  on  rugged 

Hymettus? 
Why,  the  mountain  is  bare,  harvest  it  has  but 

of  stones. — 
Yet  the  bee  will  find  on  these  rocks  the  sweetest 

of  honey ; 

Out  of  their  caverns  and  creaks  hives  he  will 
build  for  his  stores. 

32 

We  may  behold  the  mythical  world  thou  didst 

live  in,  O  Homer, 
From  Hymettus  the  blue  looking  across  toward 

Troy; 
All  the  Gods  are  astir  now,  and,  summoned  to 

hold  their  assembly, 

Rise  in  the  sound  of  the  sea,  move  in  the  song 
of  the  land ; 


EPIGEAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  209 

And  to  me,  the  poor  mortal,  Herrnes  is  bringing 

their  message,  •% 

Each  little  thought  of  the  heart  is  a  light  waft 
of  the  God. 

33 

Yonder  I  see  that  I  strayed  as  I  look  from  the 

top  of  the  mountain, 
Tarried  too  long  for  the  flower,  not  long  enough 

for  the  fruit 
Of  my  journey  to  ripen  in  sunshine :   double  my 

error ; 
Still  I  had  to  stray  there,  if  I  would  mount  to 

this  height. 
Many  the  lower  small  summits  that  swell  over 

graceful  Hymettus, 

Some  with  their  blossoms  and  bees,  some  with 
their  thistles  and  thorns. 

34 

In  my  ramble  I  went  far  astray  in  a  gorge  of 

Hymettus, 
Now  I  see  my  mistake  plain  as  the  sun  on  yon 

rock, 
And  I  wonder  how  I  could  lose  the  clear  lines  of 

this  mountain, 
All  of    which  seem  to  direct  straight  to  the 

beautiful  goal. 

What  seems  easy  is  hardest,  what  seems  near  is 
most  distant, 

14 


210  PROR8US    RETRO RSUS. 

Sunlit  Hymettus,  to-day  thou  art  my  image  of 
life. 

35 

Two   are  the  sides  of  Hymettus,  O  wanderer  ; 

steep  and  ungainly 
Is  the  whole  slope  of  the  mount,  when  from 

fair  Athens  it  turns  ; 

Yet  how  graceful  and  gradual  is  the  descent  to 
ward  Athena's 
Marble  abode,  where  she  lies  resting  on  violet 

beds. 
But  deceive  not  thyself  by  the  view,  this  way  is 

more  distant, 

It  to  the  temple  doth  lead  which  the  wise  God 
dess  indwells. 

36 

Yes,  I  saw  the  coarse  goats  as  they  fed  on  the 

top  of  Hymettus, 
Browsing  the  live-long  day  on  a  mere  bramble 

of  thorns 
Whose  toothed  leaves  ran  out  to   a  point  in  a 

truculent  briar; 
Still  the  goats  would  devour  leaflets  and  twigs 

with  the  spines. 
How  to  live  on  the  bramble  that  chokes  up  the 

ways  of  the  Muses, 

The  example  is  here  —  one  must  be  changed 
to  a  goat. 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  211 

37 

What !  is  it  true  that  foul  goats  now  feed  on  this 

honey-clewed  mountain  ? 
Yes ;  for  the  note  of  a  Muse  list  to  that  sensual 

snort. 
Here  they  too  have  been   lodged,  just  where  the 

high  summit  is  highest, 
And  in  the  shadiest  dell,  under  the  pleasantest 

pine. 
How  do   I   know?   thou   askest.     Hymettus    is 

turned  to  a  dung-hill, 

That  is  the  sign  of  the   goat,  feculent  drops 
lie  around. 

38 

The  whole  day  like  a  goat  you  may  browse  on 

the  leaves  thorn-bordered, 
Which  now  grow  on  the  mount  where  all  the 

Muses  once  sang ; 
Sprigs  you  may  pluck  by  the  handful  in  search 

of  a  savory  morsel 
Through  all  the  cotes  you  may  pass,  there  not 

a  panspipe  is  found. 
Turn  then  aside  to  the  musical  stream  sent  down 

from  the  ancients, 

You  will  find   the   old   mount   full   of  bright 
flowers  and  song. 


212  PBOBSUS    BETBORSUS. 

39 

Oft  have  I  strayed  from  the  path,  but  always 

returned  from  my  straying ; 
Often  have  I  been  lost  till  I  discovered  myself. 
Fiercely  I  stormed  through  the  weeds,  I  fought 

on  my  path  with  the  brambles, 
Burs  I  picked  from  my  coat,  thorns  I  pulled 

out  of  my  flesh. 
But  as  I  wandered  alone,  not  knowing  whither  I 

tended, 
Flowers  I  plucked  in  the  fields,  fruits  too  I 

culled  from  the  trees. 
Labyrinthine  Hymettus,  one  must  be  lost  in  thy 

windings, 

In  thy  honeycomb  lost,  ere  of  thy  sweetness 
he  taste. 

40 

Epigrams,  wake !  ye  seem  to  have  fallen  asleep 

or  are  sleepy ; 

Weave  to  a  bower  your  forms  over  the  way 
farer's  path, 
As  he  leaps  on  the  stones  and  roams  through  the 

dells  of  the  mountain  : 

Then  on  Hymettus'  top  lay  the  bright  wreath 
ye  have  wound. 

41 

What  is  thy  thought  as  thou  strollest  through 
hollows  and  hills  of  Hymettus  ? 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  213 

Life  is  a  honeycomb  too,  made  up  of  millions 

of  cells 
Which  are  called  moments  of  Time;  perchance 

they  are  utterly  empty, 
But  may  with  honey  be  filled  from  the  sweet 

flowers  of  earth. 
Every  minute  to-day  is  a  void  little  cell,  by  the 

Gods  to  thee  given, 

Be  now  busy  as  bees,  with  a  sweet  deed  fill  the 
cell. 

42 

Now   the  height  of  Hymettus   I   touch,  of  my 

efforts  the  highest, 
Always  before  have  I  stopped,  worn  by  the 

difficult  way. 
From  this  spot  I  can  see  the  whole  plain  stretched 

humbly  below  me, 
Over  whose  equal  expanse  wildly  I  wandered 

to-day. 
But  the  view  that  pleases  me  most,  looking  back 

on  my  pathway, 

Is,  I  see  over  the  heights  which  I  once  reached, 
and  then  left. 

43 

Now  I  look  out  on  the  world  from  the  top  of 

sunny  Hymettus ; 

Far  below  me   it   lies,   all   its  mad  struggle 
unheard, 


214  PBORSUS    BETBORtiUS. 

And  its  bounds  on  the  farthest  sea  I  hold  in  my 

vision ; 
How  does  it   seem?  you   inquire.     Look   in 

these  epigrams  here. 

Hundreds  of  mirrors   I  place   them,  always  re 
turning  one  image ; 

Though  the  facets  be  small,  each  will  reflect 
the  full  form. 

44 

Overlaid  with  the  gold  of  the  sun  is  the  top  of 

the  mountain, 
To  those  treasures  I  wend,  shunning  mad  Eros 

the  while; 
There  is  the  softest  caress  of  the  Muse,  and  the 

pipe  of  the  shepherd, 
Soothing  the  wound  of  the  heart  in  the  repose 

of  the  hills. 
But  I   soon  shall  return,  again  I  shall  love,  I 

know  it ; 

The  sole  freedom  I  have  is  to  be  thrall  of  the 
God. 

45 

Tell  me  what  ails  thee,  O  friend?     Art  mortal, 

hast  surely  the  heart-ache  ; 
Then  go  with  me  to-day,  yonder  are  heights  in 

the  sun  ; 
Bathe  the  still-ebbing  wound  ef  thy  heart  in  the 

quiet  of  hill-tops, 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  215 

There    alone    thou  canst  be  with  the  great 
Healer,  the  God. 

46 

Yesterday  green  was  the  mountain,  but  to-day  it 

is  hoary  ; 
Snow   has   fallen  above,  covered  its  temples 

with  grey ; 
Yesterday   thou   wert   a   youth   upspringing    in 

bloom  to  the  heavens, 
Ah,  to-day  thou  art  old,  gone  through  thy  time 

at  a  bound. 
See  how  age  is  barely  divided  from  youth  by  a 

snow-storm, 

Crushed  into  one  wild  night  all  of  thy  years  are 
a  dream. 

47 

Chill  is  the  wind   that  bears  me  along  toward 

snowy  Hymettus, 
The  lone  shepherd  now  comes  down  from  the 

mount  with  his  flocks, 
He  has  put  up  his  panspipe,  snow  has  palsied  his 

fingers, 
Flowers  no  longer  will  bloom,  springing  above 

the  rude  rock 
Into  the  sunlight ;  every  bee  has  fled  from  the 

hill-side; 
Poesy  freezes  to-day  ;  Poet  too  shivers  along. 


216  PRORtiUS    RETRORSUS. 

48 

Round  the  top  of  the  mountain  are  whirling  the 

flakes  of  the  snow-storm, 
While   below   in  the  plain  softly  are  playing 

the  beams ; 
Darkly   Hymettus   doth  muffle  his  head  in  his 

wind-woven  mantle, 

Lying  serene  on  her  couch  Parthenon  still  has 
the  sun. 

49 

JEschylus  saw  yon  sea  when  he  spoke  of  its  num 
berless  laughter ; 
Now    its    face    you    behold    sparkling    with 

millions  of  smiles 
Merrily  racing  each  other  in  sport  to  the  Isthmian 

race-course, 
The  great  games  of  the  God  still  they  keep  up 

at  his  shore. 
But  look  deep  in  the  water  and  watch  its  laughing 

reflection, 

There  the  Olympian  world  dimples  with  smiles 
in  the  waves. 

50 

Look  at  this  cairn,  the  monument  built  by  others 

before  me 

Right  on  the  top  of  the  mount,  far  overlooking 
the  vale, 


EPIGRAMMATIC    VOYAGE.  217 

Till  the  glancing   victorious  sea,  whose  flutter  of 

wavelets 
Plays  round  Salamis  still  paeans  of  warriors  of 

old. 
Touch  with  thine  eye  the  great  heart  of  the  sea 

in  the  distance, 

Thou  its  deep  beating  wilt  feel  as  if  a  battle 
were  there. 

51 

Clear  are  the  lines  of  this  mountain,  like  to  the 

forms  of  the  sculptor, 
And   transparent  the  air  softly  embracing  its 

curves ; 
Up  here  I  stand,  not  a   soul  in  the   plain  there 

below  can  behold  me, 

Still  in  Greek  sunshine  I  stand,  that  is  my  only 
reward. 

52 

Why  were  the  sides  of  this  mountain,  when  they 

were  rolled  into  ridges, 
Fixed  by  the  hand  of  the  God   just  at  their 

teuderest  swell? 
Look,  you  will  see  the  reason.     There  the  broad 

folds  of  the  ancients 

Sculptured  over  its  slant  sweep  with  their  trail 
in  the  plain. 


218  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

53 

This  book  of  epigrams,  what  shall  I  call  it?     A 

handful  of  pebbles 
Gathered  in  my  ascent  from  the  rough  side  of 

the  mount. 
And  that  writing  I  scratch  on  all  of  them?     That 

is  my  versemark ; 

With  some  faith  thou  must  try,  if  the  device 
thou  wilt  read. 

54 

Here  are  my  stones  to  the  cairn  upreared  by  my 

dear  predecessors, 
Whose  great  names  can  be  read,  writ  on  the 

tablets  of  rock; 
On  the  pile  I  throw  down  my  pebbles,  each   one 

is  scribbled 
With  some  legend  faint,  visible  scarce  to  the 

crowd. 
Still  my  mark  on  them  will  hereafter  be  always 

deciphered 

By  a    few   climbers;    to-day  leave   me    this 
comfort  at  least. 

55 

Shepherds  were  piping  and  calling  to-day  all  over 

the  mountain, 

Far  asunder  they  were,  no  one  his  fellow  could 
see; 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  219 

Still  each  heard  and  answered  the  other,  in  words 

far-resounding, 
Which  in  harmonious  waves  played  through 

the  tortuous  dells. 
In  my  own  native  speech  I  endeavored  to  give 

them  an  answer, 

Set  to  the  music  I  heard  there  on  the  pastoral 
heights. 

56 

See   the   shepherd   who   leans   on   yon  bush,   I 

happen  to  know  him ; 
Clothes  are  the  skins  of  his  flock,  rude  is  the 

staff  in  his  hand ; 
Plain  is  his  speech,  but  the  word  bears  in  it  some 

image  of  nature, 
And  if  he  strike  up  a  song,  clear  it  will  flow 

from  his  heart. 
Ears  which  hear  his  music,  eyes  which  pierce  his 

mantle, 

Find  the  man  within,  find  too  the  beautiful 
soul. 

57 

Up !    the   snow   has   fallen  to-day  and  covered 

Hymettus, 
See  how  he  shimmers  aloft  next  to  the  clouds 

of  the  sky  ! 
Now   we   must  go  and  behold  him  once  more  in 

new  crystalline  drapery 

That  falls  over  his  sides,  like  the  white  folds  of 
the  Gods. 


220  PRORSUS    RETRORUUS. 

58 

Shaggy  capote  of  the   shepherd  is  snowy  with 

fleeces  of  cloudland, 
There   he   stands   raid   his  herd,  white  as  the 

sheep  that  he  drives ; 
But  just  look  at  the  goat,  the  black  goat,  to  a 

fleece  now  whitened, 

Yet  with  a  ray  of  the  sun  he  will   again  be  a 
goat. 

59 

"  High-toned  society  I  cannot  find  in  your   epi 
grams  ;  bless  me, 
What  a  vulgar  set !  shepherds,  and  goats,  and 

yourself." 
Humble  we  are,  I  confess,  although,  if  you  scan 

us  more  closely, 

You  will  behold  what  is,  not  is  pretending  to 
be. 

60 

Once  I  met  a  small  bee  in  my  walk  on  the  top  of 

Hymettus; 

On  a  bare  rock  he  sat,  as  I  bent  over  his  seat. 
What  I  is  it  truth  or  delusion  ?  From  stones  ex- 

tractest  thou  honey 
Famed  of  old  as  to-day,  delicate  drop  of  the 

world  ? 

Friend,  I  hail  thee  I  fly  not  away,  I  gladly  would 
know  thee  ; 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  221 

Teach  me  how  sweetness  to  draw  out  of  the 
heart  of  the  rock. 

61 

Here  the  old  cloister  is  lying,  now  fallen  to  ruin 

and  romance, 
Quiet  it  rests  in  the  vale  where  meditation  once 

dwelt; 
So  the  cloister  is  passing  the  way  of  the  temple 

and  column, 
In  it  no  longer  is  heard  prayer  ascending  on 

high. 
But  the  Nymph  is  still  here,  and  she  will  remain 

here  forever, 

Laughing  out  of  this  spring,  as  it  leaps  down 
the  fresh  stones. 

62 

Over  the  fountain  the  layers  of  rock  rise  up  in 

graceful  disorder, 
Temple  built  by  the  Nymphs  in  a  wild  fanciful 

play 
For  those  youths  whose  worship  was  sport  and 

whose  sport  was  a  worship ; 
Here  by  the  cloister  it  lies,  just  the  same  tem 
ple  of  old. 
This  is  a  seat  of  the  Nymphs,  and  there  in   the 

rocks  are  grimaces 

Which   they    in   mockery  make  mocking  the 
vanishing  monks. 


222  PROBSUS    BETROBSUS. 

63 

How  it  may  be  with  thee  on  this  spot,  O  reader, 

I  know  not, 
But  as  for  me  I  rejoice,  seeing  the  joy  of  this 

fount 

And  of  these  rocks  still  filled  with  the  happy    re 
minders  of  fable ; 

In  these  ruinous  walls  too  I  rejoice  —  let  them 
fall. 

64 

O  Pindarus,  one  finds  in  the  golden  strands  of 

thy  network, 
Intricate  yet  full  of  grace,  all  the  sweet   music 

of  forms  — 
Grecian  youths,  as  they  strove  in  the  games  or 

leapt  in  the  race  course, 

As  in  the  contest  or  dance  wound  they  fair 
shapes  to  a  hymn. 

65 

Fervid,  O   high-worded  bard,  is  thy  worship  of 

youthful  Apollo, 
God  of  wisdom  and  song  blended  in  music  to 

one ; 
God  of  all  the  high  harmonies,  both  the  inner  and 

outer ; 

Let  me  too  him  revere,  softly   attuned  to  his 
strain. 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  223 

Hark !    he   hath    a  deep  power  which   sets   the 

full   soul   in  vibration, 
To  some  melody  pure  that  is  beyond  our  own 

selves ; 
But  when  the  God  has  withdrawn  his  touches  of 

innermost  music, 

Back   to   the  earth  we  fall    into    unresonant 
clay. 

66 

Give  me  thy  melody,  give  me  thy  theme,  both 

flowing  together, 
Word  is  one  with  the   thought,   form    is  the 

same  as  the  soul; 
Legend  transparently  bears  in  the  flow  of   thy 

music  its  moral, 

Ever  the  mode  thou  dost  sing  one  is  with  what 
thou  dost  sing. 


67 

Theban  eagle,  now  thou  hast  shown  me  where  is 

the  summit 
Of  the  culture  of  Greece,  long  by  me  sought 

with  much  toil ; 
Harmony  is  its  whole  name,  deep-woven  through 

cunningest  measures, 

All  of  whose  strands  intertwine  into  one  gar 
ment  of  song. 


224  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

68 

Still  to-day  you  can  see  the  white  folds  of  the 

antique  peplos, 
As  they  fall  down  the  limbs,  rounded  and  full, 

of  the  maid; 
And  the  man  you  behold  as  he  strides  iu  white 

tunic  of  linen, 
Showing  the  shapely  turns  which  are  our  body's 

own  song. 
Look  at  yon  form,  and  know  why  marble  was 

taken  by  sculpture 

To  express  the  high  deed  done  by  the  Great 
Man  or  God. 

69 

Even  in  Hellas  the  good  and  the  bad  oft  balance 

each  other ; 
Love  I  the  old  in  the  new,  hate  I  the  new  in 

the  old. 
Pleasant  the  song  of  the  larks  as  they  trill  in  the 

old  Attic  meadows, 
Hateful  the  sound  of  the  gun,  modern  intruder 

in  Greece. 
Off  fly   the   larks,  on   the   air  float  shreds    of 

melodies  ancient, 
Clear  ancestral  refrains,  sung  every  day  in  this 

field. 

Over   my  head   in   a   strife   with  the  breeze  is 
whizzing  the  bullet, 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  225 

Gun  and  powder  and  ball,  why  do  you  ravage 

this  air? 
Your  sharp  music  I  know  the  chief est  note  of 

our  era, 

Still  I  shall  follow  the  larks  back  from  the  new 
to  the  old. 

70 

Wings  I  attach  in  the  sun  to  my  words,   bright 

butterfly  flappers, 
That  to  each  flower  they  flit  over  the  slant  of 

the  mount; 
Often  not  more   do   they  bear  on   their   breath 

than  a  pin-point  of  honey; 
Reader,  out  of  the  word  thou  the   sweet  drop 
must  express. 

71 

Look !  on  this  side  Parthenon  lies,  on  that  side 

Hymettus, 
If  thou  canst  hear  with  the  eye,  both  of  them 

chime  to  one  note; 
The  clear  temple  doth  echo  along  all  the  lines  of 

the  mountain, 

And  the  mountain  of  stone  throbs  into  temples 
unbuilt. 

72 

Helius  leans  now  before  me  upon  the  round  ridge 
of  Hymettus, 

15 


226  PBOHSUS    HETEOBSUS. 

Just  for  a  moment  he  rests  ere  he  mount  up  in 

the  skies. 

Why  doth  he  gaze  so  intently  across  to  yon  hil 
lock  behind  me? 
There  the  Parthenon  lies  lit  to  a  blaze  in  his 

glance. 
Golden  the  bridge  that  he  builds  in  the  air  from 

summit  to  temple, 
Over  the  radiant  span  flit  all  the  forms  of  the 

Gods. 
Under   this    bridge  of  his  beams  I  walk  in  the 

shade  of  the  valley, 

Slowly  the  bright  structure  breaks,  now  it  doth 
fall  round  my  head. 

73 

Round  this  mountain  encircles  the  day,  the  sea 
son,  the  lifetime ; 
Butterfly,  bee,  and  man  act  out  their  deed  on 

its  breast. 
Of  its  sweetness  thou  mayest  be  able  to  suck  up 

a  mouthful, 
If  thou  a  butterfly  art,  seeking  the  food  of  a 

day. 
But  if  truly  a  bee  thou  art,  thou  wilt  gather  a 

hiveful, 

Or   a   lifeful   thou   wilt,  if   thou    art  truly   a 
man. 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  227 

74 

Satirist   Hornet   his   poison   don't    bear   in    his 

tongue  nor  his  forehead, 

Nature  has  hinted  her  mind  by  the  mere  place 
of  his  sting. 

75 

Hornets  are  reared  on  Hymettus,  I  saw  the  yel 
low-ringed  body, 
Poison  will  poison  distill  from  the  pure  heart 

of  the  flower. 
In  my  wrath  I  struck  with  my  hat  at  the  daring 

intruder ; 

This  was  the  voice :   Have  a  care  lest  thou  a 
hornet  be  too. 

76 

Cast  an  ocean   of  brine  on  one   little  beam  of 

Apollo, 

Still  it  will  glow  as  before,  dance  on  the  en 
vious  surge  ; 
Such    is    merit,    O    friend.     Though    calumny 

darken  its  lustre. 

It  will  not  be  put  out,  even  will  beam  on  the 
foe. 

77 

Yonder  is  Athens,    it  seemeth  as  if   from   this 

height  I  can  touch  it ; 

Boldly  I  walk  down  the  hill  when  a  deep  gorge 
cuts  me  off; 


228  PROBSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Painfully  then  I  return  and  try  from  the  top  a 

new  pathway, 
Till  I  by  brambles  am  stopped  ever  in  view  of 

the  town. 
Now  I  go  back  and  spy  out  the  stores  of  Hymet- 

tus  before  me, 

Hearing  its  song  on  my  way,  soon  I  to  Athens 
am  come. 

78 

This  is  the  Pnyx,  you  say,  whence  spoke  the 

great  orator  Attic, 
Still  may  be  heard  from  these  stones  eloquent 

echoes  of  old ; 
This  broad  platform  hewn  from  the  rock  is   a 

voice  adamantine 
That  through   the  ages  resounds  warning  the 

races  of  men. 
Gone  are  the  dwellings  and  temples  and  men  that 

crowded  this  summit, 

But  the  voice  has  remained  —  hark  !  it  is  speak 
ing  to-day. 

79 

Only  behold  this  stone  of  the  Pnyx,  altogether 

the  greatest, 

Though  the  others  are  large,  larger  than  else 
where,  you  think. 

Here   it   rests  in   the  wall,  it  was  raised  by  the 
hand  of  a  Titan, 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  229 

To  outlast  all  the  strokes  in  the  great  fall  of  a 

world. 
Let  us  call  it  Demosthenes,  rock  of  perdurable 

grandeur, 

Orator  now  on  his  stand,  uttering  still  his  great 
word. 

80 

Mid  these  ruins,  O  wanderer,  this  should  be  thy 

first  lesson, 
To  be  able  to  hear  speech  without  lips,  without 

words ; 
Study  the  language  of  stones,  put  together  their 

old  broken  story, 

Hear  their  destroyer  speak  too,  smiting  them 
down  in  his  wrath. 

81 

Athens,  I    fear   thee ;    thou   wert    the  favorite 

haunt  of  the  virgin, 
Who   has  given   thee   name,   who   thy    chief 

temple  indwelt ; 
Stern  and  severe   is  thy  glance,  O  Pallas,  thou 

maid  of  cool  reason, 
Knowledge  and  art  are  thy  gifts,  scorning  the 

light  play  of  Love. 
Venus  is  hateful  to  thee,  and  all  the  lorn  lover's 

caprices, 

This  I  must  not  forget,  as  I  thy  favor  implore. 
Still  on  this  mountain  you  often  can  hear  the  soft 
trill  of  panspipe. 


230  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS 

Notes  of  it  rise  on  the  air  tuning  the  slope  to 

its  strain, 
One  they  are  with  the  sunshine  over  the  tran- 

quilest  ridges, 
One  with  the  hum  of  the  bee,  one  with  the 

beat  of  the  heart. 

82 

The  cicada,  long  famous  for  music,  I  saw  on  a 

grass-blade, 
He  was  the  last  of  his  race  fallen  on  days  of 

decline; 
The  green  freshness  of  Spring  had  changed  to 

the  dullness  of  Autumn, 
Scarce  could  he  balance  his  wings,  and  he  no 

longer  could  sing. 
But  his  shape  he  retained,  and  all  of  his  ancient 

armor, 
A  tall  helmet  he  wore  mounted  by  double  high 

crests ; 
Long  was  the  fall  of  his  robe  which  covered  his 

tapering  body, 
Draping   a   hint   of  the  Gods:   graceful  were 

bended  his  limbs. 
Here  in  view  of  the  city,  whose  eye  is  the  fane 

of  Athena, 
Antique  shadows  he  casts,  dim  like  the  old  in 

the  new. 

But,  O  Anacreon,  let  him  now  sing  as  he  sang 
for  thy  measures, 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  231 

A  new  life  he  will  have,  echoing  notes  of  thy 
lyre. 

83 

Ah,  discordant  the  sound  I  now  hear  in  a  dale  of 

Hymettus ! 
'Tis  the  Byzantine  twang  that  from  yon  chapel 

doth  come. 
That  is  surely  the  sound  which  killed  old  Pan  in 

this  mountain, 

And   it  would   any  God,  daily  to  hear  such  a 
snarl. 

84 

Many  a  sound  is  hateful  —  the  grating  of  hinges 

in  dungeons, 
And  the  clanking  of   chains,  also  the  human 

shrill  screech ; 
But  the   clanking,  the  grating,  the  screeching  is 

sweetest  of  music 

To  the  screed  of  the  priest  mid  the  Greek  hills 
on  a  morn. 

85 

Who   were  my  visitors  as  I  reposed  on  the  hill- 

of  Colonus? 
Butterflies,   birds   and  bees  came   with   their 

message  of  joy. 
But  here  cometh  a  blind  old  man  who  is  led  by  a 

maiden. 

What  does  he  say?   What  she?  Look  in   the 
poet  of  old. 


232  PROBSUS    ItETRORSUS. 

CEdipus,  thou  art  the  man  who  always  appears 

to  the  stranger, 

Here  thou  didst  wander  in  life,  here  thou  wert 
ta'en  to  the  Gods. 

86 

Still  you   may  note  the  olive  and   grape,    the 

plantain  and  cypress, 
Through  the  Athenian  vale,  roaming  the  river 

along; 
Still   at  noon  you  may   see  old  Cephissus  rise 

out  his  stream-bed, 
Secretly  water  the  trees  that  are  enwreathing 

his  banks ; 
And  the  gracefullest  nymphs   are  still    frisking 

amid  yonder  thicket, 

Now   from  this  height  you  may   watch   all  of 
their  frolicsome  sport. 

87 

Sophocles,  this  was  thy  hill  on  whose    summit 

transpired  the  wonders 
Which  thou  didst  see  in   old  age,  but  with  a 

vision  beyond. 
Round  the  hill  is   woven  a  garland  of    silvery 

olives, 
Playing  to-day  in  the  breeze,  pretty  reminders 

of  song. 
Peering  amid  the  grey  foliage  gleams  the  bare 

top  of  Colonus, 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  233 

Like  a  poetical  brow,  aged,  though  fresh  in  its 

joy- 
Gone   are   thy  temples  and  shrines,  O  hillock; 

gone  are  thy  Gods  too, 

Still  thou   by   Nature   art  crowned    with  the 
green  wreath  of  the  bard. 

88 

What  did  you  see,  O  stranger,  to-day  on  the  hilt 

of  the  Muses, 
Seeking  the  joyous  old  haunts  where  the  sweet 

Sisters  once  dwelt  ?  — 

Goats,  I  saw  nothing  but  goats  that  were  brows 
ing  the  thyme  of  the  hill-slopes, 
And  there  was  nothing  beside,  which  could  be 

seen  with  the  eye. 
As  I  sat  and  watched  their  ungraceful  and  dirty 

caprices, 

Soon  the  danger  I  felt  there  of  becoming   a 
goat. 

89 

Long  I  sought  on  that  hill  for  a  trace  of  some 

musical  shepherd, 
Tuning  his  pipe  in  the  sun  to  the  soft  trill  of 

his  heart ; 
Flocks  I  sought  for  calmly  reposing  in  patches 

of  sunshine, 

Maidens  I  looked  for  in  vain,  sporting  with 
lambs  on  the  rocks. 


234  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

All  the  hill-side  was  bare,   not   a   bush,    not   a 

flower  or  thyme-stalk, 

Whose  mild  fragrance  was  once  sweetly   dis 
tilled  into  verse. 
Pan  is  dead,  the  shepherd  and  shepherdess  thence 

have  vanished, 

Sheep  are  now  left  to  themselves  till  they  be 
shorn  for  their  fleece. 

90 

From  the  Nine  Sisters  this  hill  is  named ;  they 

dwelt  on  its  summit, 

And  from  the  height  they  attuned  all  the  hori 
zon  around 
To  their  music;   unto  its  cadences  rose  up    the 

temples, 
Choruses  fair  tripped  forth,  swaying  the  body 

to  song ; 

The  high  forms  of  the  Gods  and  Goddesses  step 
ped  out  of  marble, 

Speech  was  an  ecstasy  sweet,  flowing  to  meas 
ures  of  time ; 
All  the  deeds  of  the  doers,  all  the  words  of  the 

speakers 

Were  one  strain  of  the  Muse  singing  in  Athens 
of  old. 

91 

Up,  companion,  climb  to  the  top  of  the  hill  of 
the  Muses, 


EPIGRAMMATIC    VOYAGE.  235 

Thence  you  will  note  in  the  plain  city  and 

temple  and  sea ; 
And  if  you  look  long  enough,  you  will  witness 

the  birth  of  Athena 

Rising  up  with  her  town  cast  in  the  mold  of 
her  brain. 

92 

From   this  top  where  we  lie,  let  us  view  yon 

theater's  ruin, 
Carefully  build  it  anew,  which  all  the  Muses 

once  built, 

When  they  had  on  this  hill  their  temple  of  far- 
glancing  glory, 
And  inspired  the  voice  which  is  still  heard  in 

those  walls. 
Piece  together  their  fragments,  list  to  the  notes 

that  they  echo, 

You  will  hear  a  vast  rhythm  setting  to  music 
the  world. 

93 

Athens,  many  thy  violet  hills,  and  all  of  them 

sacred  I 
Each  one,  however  small,  raises  its  head  to  the 

skies 
High  as  Olympus ;  take,  O  friend,  the  next  path 

of  the  ascent ; 

It  will  lead  to  the  top  where  is  the  home  of  a 
God. 


236  PKORSUS    RKTRORSUS. 

94 

O  t"he  shy  Muses,  I  wonder  if  they  to  my  love 

give  requital ! 
Many  adorers  they  have,   few  are  invited  to 

stay; 
Some  get  a  glance  or  a  smile,   and  some  get  a 

word  from  their  heart-depths, 
But  the  most  are  dismissed  —  suitors  who  loiter 

outside. 
Scarce  in  a  century  will  the  coy  Muse  fall  in  love 

with  a  mortal, 

Breathing  her  soul  into  his,  making  one  pas 
sionate  life 
That  must  break  into  song  and  tune  all  the  world 

to  its  keynote, 
When  we  see  Nature  herself  joining  her  voice 

to  the  choir. 
Could  I  be  sure  I  were  loved  as  much  as  I  love 

ye,  O  Sisters ! 
Epigrams  never  would  cease   welling  up  into 

the  day. 
Give  me  the  meed  of  my  love  back,  be  thou  a 

Muse  or  maiden, 

Give  the  reciprocal  kiss,  lips  are  made  two  to 
be  one. 

95 

Parthenon,  mid  thy  deep  joy  thou  showest  a  still 

deeper  sorrow, 

Fate  has  smitten  thee  too,  as  it  smote  heroes 
of  old. 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  237 

Yes,  I  catch  thy  sweet  srnile  which  gladdens  the 

sea  and  the  valley, 
But  I  behold,  too,  the  wound  which  has  been 

struck  in  thy  side. 
Thou   like   CEdipus,  Hercules,  thou   the  Greek 

temple,  art  tragic, 
Ruin   heroic   thou   art,  beautiful   just  in  thy 

fall. 
O  the  eternal  delight  that  sings  out  thy  fragments 

of  marble ! 

O  the  eternal  pain  from  the  pierced   heart  of 
thy  stones ! 

96 

Here,  at  thy  shrine,  O  Pan,  near  the  stream  of 

little  Ilissus, 
Gratefully  to  thee  I  give  all  of  the  wanderer's 

arms: 

Namely,  this   faithful   staff  which    stoutly  sup 
ported  my  footsteps 
Where  are  the  mountain  haunts  trod  by  the 

shepherd  alone; 
And  these  shoes  too  I  offer,  now  torn  by  the  rocks 

of  the  hillside 
As  I  sought  thy  retreat  mid  the  deep  forest 

and  glen. 
By  their  aid  and  by  thine,  O  Pan,  I  have  ended 

my  journey, 

Take   now  the  signs  of  my  art,  grant  me,  I 
pray  thee,  repose. 


Maid  of  Athens. 

In  the  bed  of  Ilissus  is  lying  Calirrhoe  limpid, 
Heaving  her  watery  breast  still  to  the  God  of 

the  stream ; 
Thither  I  wander  to  hear  from  the  Nymph  her 

melodies  ancient, 
Fain  would  I  catch  her  sweet  note  sung  to  the 

fablers  of  old. 
As  I  sat  on  a  stone  and  looked  at  the  gush  of  the 

fountain, 
Came  with  Junonian  tread  maiden  of  figure 

antique  ; 
White   was   the   ripple  of  folds  as  they  flowed 

down  the  lines  of  her  body, 
Broken  to  waves   at   each   step    just    as  she 

bended  the  knee. 

She  was  bearing  an  amphora  ancient  of  grace- 
fulest  model, 

(238) 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  239 

Wherein  to  pour  the  fresh  drink  throbbed  from 

the  heart  of  the  earth  ; 
With  the  cup  in  her  hand  she  was  dipping  it  out 

of  the  fountain, 
Filling  the  jar  at  her  side  with  a  bright  sparkle 

of  pearls ; 
To  me  she  handed  a  draught  from   the  flood  of 

Calirrhoe's  vintage, 
While  the  wealth  of  her  eyes,  spendthrift,  she 

poured  on  the  ground. 
Nor  would   she  look  at  me  even  while  daintily 

doing  me  service, 
Ever  she  kept  at  her  work  busily  whirling  the 

cup; 
How  I  longed  to  speak  but  a  word  —  she  forbade 

me  in  silence, 
Still  I  read  what  she  said  written  in  movement 

and  form. 
Forward  she  leaned  her  lithe  body  that  turned 

to  the  outline  of  Graces, 
High  she  swung  her  white  arm  bared  to  the 

shoulder  of  dress, 
Cupful  she  whirled  after  cupful  into  the  mouth 

of  the  vessel, 
While  her  melodious  breath  uttered  a  song  to 

the  rhythm, 
As   it  softly  was  flowing  from  motion  of   hand 

and  of  body, 

So  that  attuned  to  one  note  seemed   both  her 
form  and  her  lips. 


240  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

O   the   beautiful  concord  when  song  is  a  bodily 

movement, 
And  the  movement  a  song  hymned  from  the 

heart  in  each  act  I 
See  now  the   dead  earthen   amphora  wet  with 

Callirrhoe's  finger  I 
Shapes  spring  out  of  its  clay  born  at  a  touch 

of  her  hand ; 

What  was  a  dull,  burnt  side  of  a  jar,  quite  life 
less  and  vacant, 
Now  with  action   is   filled,  action  of  figures 

divine ; 
Pallas  I  see  rise  up   at   her   city,   in   bearing 

majestic, 
To   a  mortal   she   speaks,  son   of  Laertes    I 

deem. 
Then   is   pictured   a   maid,  Nausicaa,  near  to  a 

fountain, 
To  her  Ulysses  appears,  wanderer  mighty  of 

old, 
And  he  prays  her  to  lead  him  the  way  to  the 

wonderful  city, 
Home  of  the  beautiful  forms,  work  too  itself 

of  the  Gods. 
Far  he  has  come  on  his  journey  from  mythical 

lands  by  the  sunset, 
Seeking  his   earliest   hearth,  where  once  his 

spirit  was  born ; 

"  Maiden,"  I  cried,  "  Oh  stay  till  I  read  what  is 
told  in  that  picture, 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  241 

It  is  speaking  to  ine,  telling  the  word  of  my 

fate. 
I  must  know  what  it  says,  must  spell  its  oracular 

letters 
That  have  been   made  by  the  strokes  moved 

from  the  hand  of  a  God. 
List !  all  its  persons  I  hear,  they  address  me  as 

an  acquaintance  ; 
To  their  group  I  belong,  though  I  stand  out  in 

the  air. 
They  have  come  to  me  here  by  the  side  of  Calir- 

rhoe's  mirror, 
Thou  art  their  guide  to  this  spot,  answer  them 

now  in  thy  speech  !" 
Not   a  word   she  said  in  reply,    yet   in  motion 

responsive 
Softly  she  uttered  her  heart  taking  the  jar  in 

her  arms. 
Look,  the  maiden  has  raised  to  her  head  that 

amphora  ancient, 
There  it   stands  a  high  crown,  wreathed  with 

clear  shapes  of  old  Time  ; 
She,  with   life  in  her  movement,    is  giving  her 

life  to  its  figures, 
She  is  one  of  them  there,  though  she  be  here 

too  to-day. 
See  the  old  and  the  new  now  vanishing  into  each 

other, 

Interplaying  their  forms  down  from  Olympus 
to  Earth, 

16 


242  PRORSUS    RETRORSUS. 

And  from  the  Earth  to  Olympus  again,  in  the  sport 

of  their  beauty, 
Her  they  are  giving  their  grace,  them   she  is 

giving  her  breath. 
Sketched  on  the  air  she  is  moving  both  into  and 

out  of  that  picture, 
Dropped  from  the   outlines   of  art  into    the 

movement  of  life. 
Who  can  distinguish  which  is  the  modern,  which 

is  the  ancient? 
Which  is  the  person  of  stone?     Which  is  the 

being  with  breath  ? 
Is  it  the  draught  of  thy  stream  that  cunningly 

changes  my  vision? 
Or  thy  mirror  perchance  calmly  reflecting    a 

world? 
Such  are  the  forms  that   rise  in   thy   fountain, 

Calirrhoe  limpid, 
Thy  clear  waters  still  show  all  the  old  shapes 

of  the  bard, 
And  transfigure  them  into  the  youngest  look  of 

the  living, 

See  I  I  am  thirsty  again !  Give  me  a  drink  of 
thy  spring. 


Hymn  to  Pallas. 

Pallas,  O  Pallas  of  Athens,  I  stroll  through  thy 

beautiful  temple, 
Which  has  been  built  in  this  land  doubly  by 

Nature  and  Art, 
Fair    white   Parthenon   yonder   is  not  thy  sole 

structure,  O  Goddess, 

Attica  all  is  thy  house,  reared  to  the  upper 
most  hills. 
See  I  this  Athenian  landscape  is  ever  a  glorious 

poem, 
Which  from  each  spot  you  can  read  all  the  long 

day  in  your  walk. 
Radiant  verses  are  gleaming  like  falchions  aloft  on 

the  summits, 
Mighty  heroical  lines  lighten  through  opaline 

skies, 

Heaving  hexameters  roll  from  the  rise  and  the 
fall  of  the  sea  swell, 

(243) 


244  PSOBSUS    RETRORSUS. 

Tender  love  epigrams  lisp  cadences  low  in  be 
tween. 
Plain  and  mountain  and  sea  are   a   garland   of 

splendor  majestic, 
Circling  the   head   of   old   Time  laid   in    fair 

Attica's  lap; 
Foliage,  herd,  and  ship  make  a  line  of  a  musical 

measure 
Moving  with  harmonies  sweet  into  one  cast  of 

the  eye. 
O  the  transfusion  of  sound  !  the  transfiguration 

of  vision ! 

Every  object  of  sense  flashes  to  letters  of  light ; 
Brightest  of  scripture  is  writ  on  the  earth  with  a 

pencil  of  sunbeams, 
And  the  white  folds  of  the  clouds  drop  down 

unrolling  a  scroll ; 
Many  a  line  of  old  Homer  is  cut  on  the  burnished 

horizon, 
Words  of  the  Muse  built  of  stars  nightly  you 

read  in  the  sky, 
Strains  of  high  singers  flow  still  from  the  liquid 

Ionian  heavens, 
Out  of  each  fountain  are  heard  songs  set  with 

fancies  of  old, 
Weeds  and  thorns  and  brambles  are  hung  with 

emeralds  precious, 

Pebbles  begin  underfoot  suddenly  turning  to 
pearls ; 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  245 

Wisdom,  the  grave  old  sage,  is  diamonded  over 

and  over 
As  he  walks  through  the  grove,   bearing  the 

thought  of  the  world. 
Ancient  Pentelicus  yonder  is  speaking  a  word  to 

the  sculptor, 
Rising  to  statue  from  stone,  filling  the  dome 

of  the  sky ; 
Happy  Hymettus  transfuses  to  song  all  the  dew 

of  his  honey, 
As  he  sweeps  to  the  plain  from  the  clear  home 

of  the  Gods. 
Yet  this  Nature  is  but  the  outermost  garb  of  the 

poem, 
Which  the  body  doth  grace  hinting  the  glories 

within, 
Nobly  suggesting  the  soul  in  the  refluent  folds  of 

green  drapery, 
As  it  flowing  through  vales  rolls  to  the  tops  of 

the  hills. 
Only  look  up ;  you  will  see,  wherever  you  are, 

the  fair  temple 
Which   in   the   center   is   placed,    raying   out 

streams  from  its  height: 
Fountain  perennial,  welling  above  an   Athenian 

hillock, 
Thence  overflowing  Greek  hills  into  the  stream 

of  the  world ; 

Waves   it   is  sending   of   translucent    smiles    in 
eternal  processions, 


246  PRORSUS    BETBORSUS. 

Thousands  of  years   it   has   filled   all   of  this 

plain  with  its  joy 
Up  to  the  mountainous  rim  that  lies  on  the  earth 

like  a  garland, 
And   embosoms   the   fane   in   a   long    happy 

caress. 
Cincture  of  pillars  by  distance  becomes  a  gay 

zone  of  Greek  maidens, 
Festively  dressed  in  white  folds,  reaching  each 

other  the  hand. 
See  the  fair  chorus   of  columns   now   dancing 

around  on  the  summit, 
The  full  joy  of  the  feast  flows  to  the  ends  of 

the  plain, 
Speaking  afar  to  the  wayfarer  lonely,  evangels 

of  beauty, 
Moving  to  measures  of  song  under  melodious 

skies. 
Thither,  O  wanderer,  haste  from  the  vale,  from 

the  mountain  most  distant, 
Haste    on  the  wings   of    the   ship   over  the 

islanded  seas, 
Aught  is  reaching  for  thee  far  out  of  the  heart 

of  the  temple, 
Fair  as  the  youth  of  the  world,  wise  as  the  old 

age  of  Time, 
Drawing  thee   up  the  Acropolis   bound  in  fleet 

fetters  of  sunbeams, 

Till  thou  art  set  on  its  top  from   the  wide 
world's  other  side ; 


EPIGRAMMATIC     VOYAGE.  247 

Pass  now  into  the  temple,  thou  wilt  behold  the 

high  Goddess, 
Where  she  sits  on  her   throne,    seen  by  her 

worshiper  true ; 
She  will  show  thee  her  beauty,  she  will  tell  thee 

her  wisdom, 

She  is  the  landscape's  heart,  heart  of  the  poem 
is  she. 


NOTE. 

It  has  seemed  to  me  that  a  little  note  appended  to 
the  present  book  and  telling  a  few  facts  about  it, 
would  be  welcome  to  those  readers  who  are  most 
interested  in  it  and  in  the  series  of  works  of  which  it 
forms  a  part. 

The  first  fact  which  I  would  like  to  make  known  is 
that  the  book,  at  the  date  of  the  present  writing 
(April,  1892),  is  about  fourteen  years  from  the  period 
of  its  origin.  It  began  to  live  in  me  and  to  start  into 
expression  during  the  spring  of  1878,  which  I  passed 
at  Rome,  viewing  palaces,  ruins,  statues,  and  all  the 
remains  of  antiquity,  even  down  to  small  fragments 
of  ancient  marble.  The  old  world  had  received  from 
Time  a  blow  that  had  shivered  it  to  pieces,  still  these 
pieces  would  come  together  for  the  patient  inquirer, 
and  deliver  with  distinctness  their  message.  Every 
day  would  bring  some  new  utterance,  broken  per 
chance,  yet  suggesting,  if  not  completely  voicing,  the 
antique  spirit. 

It  was  for  me  a  time  of  supreme  happiness,  of  re 
construction  within  and  without  —  a  Roman  spring  in 
the  soul.  I  was  driven  off  by  the  hot  weather  to  the 
north,  but  in  the  fall  I  returned,  and  saw  again  with 
delight  my  ancient  acquaintances. 

But  the  first  intoxication  of  joy  had  begun  to  wane, 
I  could  not  help  feeling  that  there  was  something  else 
behind  and  beyond  Rome,  especially  antique  Rome,  as 
we  still  see  it  to-day.  Looked  into  more  closely,  all 
the  Roman  stones  —  temples,  statues,  reliefs,  even  the 
triumphal  arches  and  the  Coliseum  —  were  pointing 
to  another  land  and  people  as  their  origin.  Many 
works  of  antiquity  very  plainly  spoke  of  captivity  and 
servitude.  The  Roman  conqueror  subjected  not 

(249) 


250  NOTE. 

merely  the  Greek  State,  but  Greek  Art,  which  thus 
became  a  slave  in  Rome.  Hence  a  reaction  came  over 
me,  and  with  it  an  intense  longing  to  go  back,  or,  better, 
to  go  forward,  to  Hellas.  The  necessity  was  strong, 
indeed  imperative,  and  so  again  I  started  toward  the 
rising  sun. 

From  these  two  experiences  the  reader  will  derive 
the  two  portions  of  the  present  book,  Ecce  Roma  and 
Epigrammatic  Voyage  —  the  stay  at  Rome  and  the 
transition  to  Hellas. 

Such  is,  in  general,  the  origin  of  these  utterances  in 
verse.  They  began  to  spring  up  when  I  touched 
classic  soil;  they  moved  of  themselves  into  their 
measure  without  any  conscious  violence  on  my  part ; 
the  view  of  nature,  the  sight  of  the  objects,  the  voice 
of  the  old  world  still  speaking  in  monuments  and  in 
language  were  the  first  instigators,  and  must  bear  the 
chief  blame.  Such  a  deed  I  had  not  thought  of  before 
hand  ;  I  had  never  tried  a  classical  meter  till  land,  sea, 
mountain  and  sky  gave  the  beat  which  could  then  be 
heard  vibrating  through  all  ancient  art  and  literature. 

Still,  I  ought  to  add  that  not  all  of  these  poems 
(there  are  nearly  two  hundred  and  fifty,  short  and 
long)  were  finished  or  even  written  down  on  classical 
soil.  For  years  after  my  return  home  the  mood  would 
come  back  at  intervals,  and  would  insist  upon  expres 
sion  in  the  present  metrical  form,  a  very  solitary  note 
in  English  song.  At  such  times  whatever  was  old,  was 
often  touched  up  afresh,  and  even  new,  hitherto  uncon 
scious  phases  of  the  Greco- Roman  journey  would  shoot 
into  some  unexpected  image  or  thought.  As  late  as 
two  years  ago,  the  antique  mood  revived  with  no  little 
tyranny,  and  for  a  tvhile  drove  out  every  other  kind  of 
work,  especially  that  which  had  to  do  with  the  present. 
So  the  old  road  must  be  traveled  over  again,  along 
which  fresh  flowers  are  always  blooming.  This  book, 
accordingly,  is  made  up  of  many  jonrneyings  into 
classic  lands,  yet  is  but  one  journey ;  each  time  has 
left  its  trace  upon  the  poems,  which  ought  thereby  not 
to  lose  but  to  reach  their  unity  and  completeness. 


NOTE.  251 

But  life  is  short  and  the  traveler  at  last  must  rest 
at  his  inn.  The  period  has  arrived  when  the  present 
book  must  be  closed  and  gotten  rid  of  by  its  author, 
who  has  finally  to  send  forth  the  child  of  his  brain 
with  a  hope  in  his  heart  and  a  blessing  on  his  lips.  It  is 
to  take  its  place  in  the  series  of  works  and  of  long- 
continued  attempts  which  have  sought  to  regain  the 
ancient  Hellenic  inheritance,  and  to  transmit  the  same 
to  our  Western  world.  Classical  studies  seem  just  at 
the  present  to  be  passing  through  an  eclipse.  But  in 
some  form  the  spirit  of  that  antique  life  must  be  recov 
ered  and  renewed,  being  an  integral  element  in  the 
development  of  man  from  barbarism  to  culture,  and 
remaining  still  to-day  the  most  beautiful  manifestation 
that  has  yet  appeared  on  our  planet,  since  it  is  just  the 
manifestation  of  beauty. 

The  immediate  view  of  nature  and  antiquity  in 
Greece  and  Italy  of  to-day  —  the  climate,  the  land 
scape,  the  monuments,  the  works  of  art  —  called  forth 
primarily  what  is  here  written.  Still  there  were  cer 
tain  literary  influences  and  associations,  ancient  and 
modern,  which  played  into  the  mood,  and  which 
I,  looking  back  through  all  these  years,  can  discern 
with  some  degree  of  clearness.  The  three  chief  ones 
I  shall  point  out  to  my  reader,  who  may  possibly 
desire  at  some  time  to  make  an  excursion  on  the  same 
road. 

1.  The  first  of  these  literary  influences  both  in  time 
and  degree  was  the  Greek  Anthology.  I  had  never 
looked  into  this  vast  collection  of  verses  which  image 
Hellenic  life  for  more  than  a  thousand  years  in  its 
most  subtle  aspects,  till  I  reached  Rome,  where  some 
allusion  or  quotation  led  me  to  get  the  small  pocket 
edition  of  Tauchnitz,  which  then  became  my  handbook 
and  guide  to  the  ancient  world,  nor  is  it  wholly  laid 
aside  yet.  In  all  my  wanderings  through  Italy  and 
Greece  it  was  my  chosen  companion,  whom  I  would 
especially  recommend  to  my  successors  as  the  most 
delightful  and  best  informed  cicerone  in  Heathendom. 

Very  naturally  there  was  a  strong  desire  to  make 


252  NOTE. 

the  epigrams  of  the  Anthology  speak  my  mother- 
tongue  and  yet  have  them  retain  their  Greek  mood 
and  drapery.  The  first  and  the  indispensable  requisite 
was  that  they  should  keep  as  far  as  possible  their 
ancient  meter.  The  usual  English  translations  of  the 
Greek  epigram  were  iambic,  in  rhymed  couplets 
or  quatrains.  I  can  truly  say,  I  could  not  endure 
them.  Even  when  they  were  faithful  to  the  sense 
and  poetic  in  language,  the  classic  fragrance  and 
form  were  all  gone,  for  me  at  least.  On  the  soil  of 
England  or  America  they  will  have  to  be  tolerated,  for 
that  tremendous  all-devouring  Anglo-Saxon  individu 
ality  which  threatens  to  swallow  the  whole  world,  as 
serts  itself  also  in  versification  and  is  inclined  to  permit 
only  its  own  to  be.  German  translations  of  Greek 
poetry,  and  specially  of  the  Anthology,  are  far  more 
sympathetic  on  the  whole,  though  often  rough  and 
formal. 

Hence  arose  the  attempt  to  preserve  in  English 
the  metrical  form  of  the  Greek  epigram,  as  far  as  a 
language  using  accent  instead  of  quantity  would  per 
mit.  Any  other  kind  of  verse  will  not  answer,  what 
ever  be  thought  of  the  present  attempt.  ' '  English 
ears  are  not  used  to  this  measure  "  it  is  said  ;  English 
ears  will  yet  have  to  become  used  to  it,  and  let  Classic 
numbers  live  in  the  English  tongue.  So  much  by  way 
of  prophecy,  which  has  as  yet,  be  it  observed,  no  fixed 
date  of  fulfillment. 

This  book,  however,  is  not  a  translation,  nor  is  it 
an  imitation  or  even  reproduction  simply.  It  narrates 
my  own  thoughts  and  experiences  ;  it  is  as  modern  as 
I  am,  in  spite  of  its  antique  form ;  it  emphatically  be 
longs  to  the  present,  and,  whatever  be  its  merit  or 
want  of  merit,  it  could  have  been  written  only  by  a 
man  belonging  to  the  last  half  of  the  19th  century. 
An  author  has  to  put  his  own  time  and  his  own  per 
sonality  into  his  work.  To  try  to  write  a  Greek 
tragedy  or  a  Latin  ode  just  as  Sophocles  or  Horace 
would  have  written  it,  is,  I  hold,  a  puerile  business, 
and  is,  besides,  quite  impossible.  Still  antique  forms 


NOTE.  253 

may  be  employed,  but  the  matter,  the  content  must  be 
modern.  In  the  old  the  new  must  appear  all  the 
brighter  and  truer  for  its  vase.  Of  this  complete  in 
terfusion  and  happy  marriage  between  the  antique  and 
modern  in  poetry  there  is  a  supreme  example,  which 
the  reader  will  note  as  the  second  literary  influence 
observable  in  the  present  book. 

2.  This  is   Goethe.     Of   all  the  men  of  Teutonic 
blood  who  have  visited  Italy,  he  is  the  one  who  has 
shown  the  most  feeling  for  the  old  world  and  greatest 
mastery   over    its   form   of    expression,  yet    without 
losing   himself    in  mere   classical   imitation.     In  his 
Iphigenia,  in  his  Roman  Elegies,  and  in  his  Epigrams 
after  the  Greek  manner,  he  employs  the  antique  form, 
yet  it  is  alive,  it  belongs  to  the  present  also ;  he  shows 
himself  the  most  ancient  as  well  as  the  most  modern 
man,  the  truly  universal  poet. 

Goethe  is,  therefore,  the  genius  who  has  made  the 
antique  live  again,  and  has  thus  surpassed  antiquity 
itself.  Not,  however,  by  simply  going  back  to  the 
old  ages  does  he  accomplish  this,  but  by  living  wholly 
in  his  own  age.  Sometimes  he  is  called  an  old  pagan  ; 
such  he  is,  but  he  is  also  a  youth  of  to-day,  full  of  the 
pulse-beat  of  his  time,  even  in  his  classical  transfor 
mations.  All  great  poets  have  the  same  trait ;  they  are 
the  first  and  the  last,  a  kind  of  Alpha  and  Omega 
of  human  spirit. 

3.  Another  influence  was  that  of  the  Latin  elegiac 
poets.    Greece  stirred  up  even  the  old  practical  Roman 
to  verse-making,  not  naturally  his  vocation.     I  was 
particularly  attracted  to  Proper tius,  who  has  given  a 
Greco- Roman  setting  of  Art  and  Mythology  to  his  love 
for  Cynthia,  and  who  undoubtedly  influenced  Goethe. 

Still  I  shall  have  to  confess  that  the  Latin  poets  do 
not  mean  much  to  me  poetically.  They  had  to  trans 
fuse  the  elusive  Hellenic  spirit  into  an  idiom  cognate 
to  Greek  indeed,  but  in  some  respects  harder  to  break 
into  a  supple  instrument  of  poetic  freedom  than  Ger 
man  or  English.  The  imitation  and  formalism  one 
always  feels  in  Latin  poetry,  even  when  it  is  subtle 


254  NOTE. 

and  elegant.  For  me  Goethe  stands  nearer  the  heart 
of  the  Hellenic  world  than  any  Roman  poet,  and  utters 
it  in  a  more  vital  way.  Still,  in  modern  Rome  the  old 
heathen  poets  of  Rome  ought  to  be  read  and  under 
stood  anew. 

All  these  different  literary  utterances,  however,  the 
Greek,  the  Roman,  the  German,  are  but  transforma 
tions  of  one  and  the  same  thing,  that  which  is  called 
the  antique  spirit,  though  it  is  quite  as  modern  as  it 
is  ancient.  They  all  strike  one  key-note  at  bottom, 
whatever  be  the  place,  time  or  tongue.  Moreover  the 
same  key-note  can  be  heard  to-day  in  classic  lands  by 
the  sympathetic  ear  attuned  to  nature  and  art,  which 
must  be  the  fountain-head  of  any  genuine  poetic 
expression.  Not  the  written  word  of  the  past  but  that 
which  lies  behind  the  written  word  and  creates  it,  is 
the  mighty  demiurge  who  is  always  transforming 
himself  into  new  shapes  and  whose  re-incarnations  in 
Time,  by  means  of  the  letter  set  down  in  writing,  give 
us  what  we  call  Literature. 

To  the  above  explanatory  remarks  I  may  add  that 
Delphic  Days,  though  finished  long  before  the  present 
book  with  its  two  parts,  properly  follows  it  and  con 
stitutes  the  third  and  final  part  of  this  classical 
journey. 


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